


Aerials

by AikiBriarRose



Series: The Axis of Time [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Iron Man 2, Canon Divergence - Iron Man 3, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Marvel Universe, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Russia, SHIELD, The Avengers (2012) - Freeform, The Avengers AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-23 05:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AikiBriarRose/pseuds/AikiBriarRose
Summary: Dimension 225A year ago, no one knew what a superhero was. Then Tony Stark disappeared and reappeared to declare himself as Iron Man. Along came Thor, the Hulk, and then the big one - the alien invasion of New York and the revelation to the world of the Avengers.You were caught in New York during the Chitauri invasion. During the fight, you got hit in the head with something and blacked out. When you come to, you find out that Iron Man flew the nuke up into the wormhole and it closed, leaving him out in space somewhere after the explosion disabled the remaining Chitauri on Earth.Now you are newly married to your dimension's version of Aldrich Killian, AKA Killian Aldrich, who hates Tony Stark with a dark passion and is ecstatic to have him gone from the world. Recently, you began having nightmares, so your husband, Killian, convinces to you get your head examined.Meanwhile Tony wakes up in Russian being held by this dimension's version of Ivan Vanko, AKA Evgenyia Vanko. He has no memory of who he is or how he got there, but his back is broken and she keeps him drugged while he heals. His main thought is how to escape and recover his memory.





	1. Verse 1 - Line 1 - Life is a Waterfall

**Author's Note:**

> Songfic based on the song [Aerials by System of a Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)
> 
> A/N: This started as my song fic for @caplansteveroger’s writing challenge on Tumblr way back in 2017. Sometimes the words just take their own sweet time. Better late than never, right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: discussions of death, possible death, near death experience  
> [Aerials by System of a Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)  
> [Verse 1]  
> Life is a waterfall  
> We're one in the river  
> And one again after the fall  
> Swimming through the void, we hear the word  
> We lose ourselves, but we find it all

Space was big, beautiful, and empty. These were the thoughts bouncing around Tony Stark’s head as he drifted in his Iron Man suit after the wormhole closed, leaving him out here to die. Cold was no longer a factor as his suit had frozen soon after the last view of Earth had faded from his visor’s sensors. What he could see now, before his eyeballs froze in their sockets, was the vast expanse of stars in a part of the Milky Way (he hoped) that no human had ever been to. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet, but his brain was still ticking away, fast and furious, making notes to himself that would never be read. 

He should have made his suit spaceworthy. That’s what his mind kept coming back to. With everything that had happened, the invasion of the Chitauri led by Loki from Asgard, the fight for New York, the SHIELD helicarrier being such a huge success, except those turbines, everything, and his brain wanted to focus on how he could have made the suit better so he could survive in space. He’d have been angry with himself, if he hadn’t been annoyed at the dying. The thoughts continued even when he could no longer see the stars.

In space, the distances between things boggles the minds of most beings. One whose mind wasn’t deceived by the emptiness between the stars traveled those wide open spaces even as Tony Stark was freezing to death. This one’s appearance was unusual for his species, mostly because he chose to look like the beings he was assigned to watch. The beings he watched also were the reason he was out here in the vastness at this moment. This moment was optimal for a great amount of motion with the least amount of effort. 

The Watcher, as he was known to those of the race he watched that knew about him, didn’t normally interfere in events. Today was different though. Today held the potential of a million different choices, a million different outcomes, a million timelines. He could feel it coming. If he was in the right spot at the right time, he could see something rare occur. 

Red metal glinted with reflected starlight, catching the Watcher’s attention. This is what he had hoped to see. He aimed his trajectory in the direction of the now defunct Iron Man suit and pushed a button in the sleeve of the bright orange, overly large spacesuit that covered his frame and headed that way.

“Oh now, we can’t have this,” he murmured when he reached the suit that was floating aimlessly. “You are way too important in the order of things to come to go out this way.”

The man in the suit was nearly dead, at least by the Watcher’s standards. His core temperature had dropped to freezing levels, his breathing had stopped, his eyes and other soft tissues were solid now from the cold. Still, the brain ticked on, too stubborn to stop working and give up. The Watcher was glad. He hated having to interfere more than absolutely necessary. Grabbing the Iron Man suit, he hauled it along behind him for several trillion miles, until they reached the vicinity of Earth once again. 

With a touch to the chest plate, where the arc reactor resided in Stark’s chest and showed through the suit, the Watcher jumpstarted the energy reaction that powered the suit, rebooting its systems. An etching appeared in the suit’s metal alloy skin from the touch. Holding the suit by the shoulders, the Watcher began rotating, around and around, until reaching the optimal speed, he released the suit, flinging it toward Earth at a phenomenally high rate of speed.

“Okay now, “ spoke the Watcher to the planet, “I’ve brought him back. Make sure he lands safely and that someone finds him to get him where he needs to be.” With that, he headed back to the Moon to wait and watch.

***************************************************************************

The man was coming for you. Looking behind you, he isn’t there. Nothing is there except dense fog, pink and purple and white all swirling slowly around, closing in on where you came from. Ahead is more of the same, from the sides as well, and the man, whoever he is, chasing you. 

Tonight you can feel him coming from your right side. Other nights it’s been from your left. Never straight on, nor from behind. You feel him reaching for you, like he’s so close he can touch your arm. A voice comes through, startling you, setting your nerves alight. It isn’t clear, the words muffled and strange. That’s never happened before. You start to run. 

Faster and faster, your feet moving the way they should, but no progress is discernible. The path beneath your shoes, the fog, the sensation of him reaching for you, it all remains the same. Your head feels heavy, weighing you down, making it harder to move your feet. The weight of it drags you, holds you back. You reach a point where you can barely place one foot in front of the other. 

Still, the man can’t quite seem to reach you. A faint feeling of relief, of escape, begins to build as you push on. Just as the fog looks like it might be clearing, a hand reaches out and grabs your arm.

You startle and wake, to find your husband shaking your shoulder, speaking your name. 

“Y/N! Wake up! You're having another episode!” He stops when he sees your eyes are meeting his now. With a sigh, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close. 

The warmth of his embrace melts the cold, hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, mostly. Your husband's words come back to you as you get up and go to the shower. They remind you that today is the day you go in for the MRI, to see what is happening in your brain. The thought feeds the hollow, leaving you cold even under the blast of hot water.

At the hospital, your husband is all business, as usual. Being in the medical field as a biochemist/virologist, he slipped into work mode without a moment's hesitation. You were also a doctor, it was how you and he had met, but being a dermatologist with an added doctorate in botany was much more relaxed. The nurses give you respect, but without the sidelong glances they give him and the other doctors.

After the scan, the two of you wait in the office, able to meet with your neurologist immediately, thanks to your privilege. Your husband is quiet, too quiet, even for him. You watch him for several moments, feeling so lucky and loved that you had him here with you during this hard time.

It hasn't been that long since the wedding, only three months. Those months had been blissful, especially after the events of the previous year. The news had been full of reports on the strange and unusual happenings out in the Western US, but nothing much had happened here on the East coast until Tony Stark stepped up and declared himself Iron Man.

Your husband, then fiance, had lost it at that announcement. It wasn't a new thing, his hatred of all things Stark. He’d been one of Stark’s classmates, for the short time the genius had deigned to attend classes. When you met him, rants about Stark wasting his talents and the resources of his company on defense contracts for the government was one of your soon to be fiance’s daily rituals. It only got worse after Stark’s miraculous escape and subsequent revelation. 

Then New York happened. Six months ago now, and you were still reeling from being caught downtown as the Chitauri had invaded through a wormhole. Not that your husband accepted that as anything but a massive hoax, perpetuated by Stark to manipulate the government in regards to how they handled enhanced beings and mutants. The only thing that had kept your husband from going after Stark directly was the fact that the man had sacrificed himself to save the city. 

Your husband had insisted on maintaining the timetable for the wedding and as it allowed you to continue life as it had been, you went along with it. Now this had happened and your world has been turned upside-down. After countless visits to your doctor, resulting in more visits to more doctors, it had finally been narrowed down to this MRI. All that remained was to hear the results of the scan and then you could move forward with a plan. 

Turning to him you see he is on his tablet, scrolling through emails and messaging his partners from the lab. Not that you expected him to sit here and twiddle his thumbs, but it induces a bit of impatience in your voice when you get his attention.

“Killian, tell me, did you see…”

“Now babe, you know I’m not a trained radiologist or neurosurgeon.” Killian turns to you immediately, making you regret your impatient, unkind thoughts. “Dr. Strange agreed to meet with us today as a favor to us. He’ll be here as soon as he can to explain what the scan revealed.” He takes your hands in his and smiles, his brown eyes warm and smiling. “Stop fretting about it. Strange is the best in the world at what he does, so this shouldn’t be but a simple fix.”

You smile back, reassured now. Killian had never given you a reason to worry, never a problem in your relationship. He had always been considerate of you and your interests, even when he was working on his own projects. His passions were revealed in those projects, and his hatred for Stark. 

The door opens before you can voice any more of your fears and a handsome man enters, his small smile and arrogant gaze identifying him as your neurosurgeon, Dr. Stephen Strange. You’d have guessed this even without his name tag, just by the way he didn’t even bother nodding at either of you, instead walking straight to the lightbox on the wall and throwing up large slides of a head and everything inside it. You assume it’s yours. 

The man flips on the light and turns to face you. “Dr. Aldrich,” he begins, to which you both respond.

“Yes?” says Killian.

“Hello, it’s a pleasure,” you say, not about to let him get away with such bad manners. “Thank you for meeting with us today.” It’s apparent he is used to being allowed to behave so rudely, but you were raised to be polite as well as to not take bad treatment from anyone. It had caused trouble before, so when Dr. Strange stops and looks at you, you are ready with a gentle smile. 

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Strange starts speaking again and you expect him to respond to your statement. Instead he looks at your husband. “I wasn’t aware your wife was a doctor as well. Did you forget to add that to her file?”

You turn to your husband, about to repeat that question, when Dr. Strange continues, speaking over yours and Killian’s protests and questions.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll need to operate to remove the object lodged in between her parietal and occipital lobes before it slips down into her cerebellum and paralyzes her permanently.” He pauses and looks directly at you. “Or kills you.”


	2. Verse 1 - Line 2 - We're One in the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: pain; cursing; lots of cursing; medical use of painkiller drug (not named)
> 
> Also, I’m apologizing ahead of time for my depiction of Russia/Russians - I’ve watched too many movies/tv shows. I try to research these things, but sometimes I just write what comes out of my head. I’m just gonna say this is an AU and all mistakes are my own. For mis-translations, blame Google. 
> 
> [Metal Meets Metal II: System of a Down - Aerials Meets Yngwie Malmsteen (w/ Rob Lundgren)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycyOtfFmdS4) This is a really cool heavy metal cover of the song. 
> 
> [Aerials by System of a Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)
> 
> [Verse 1]  
> Life is a waterfall  
> We're one in the river  
> And one again after the fall  
> Swimming through the void, we hear the word  
> We lose ourselves, but we find it all

Evgeniya saw the meteor enter the atmosphere, burning through the layers like a bright ember burns through paper. Jumping in her truck, she followed it, praying the whole time the truck wouldn't stall out, the meteor would land somewhere close, but mostly that she would get to examine it. Her wishes were granted, which was a nice surprise for her birthday. Apparently, twenty-one years of bad luck was all she had to suffer to atone for her father's mistakes.

Considering she'd been at it since she was eight, old enough to realize, young enough to think that's how things worked, she was glad the tide had finally shifted. It became even more apparent how much it had when she arrived at the area where the meteor met with the Earth. As circumstances would have it, it was her field that took the hit. She didn't mourn the loss of the wheat. 

Her truck made it to the rim of the crater before conking out. Cursing her father, who was dead these past twelve years, she got out to fix it. Sinking ankle deep in mud as she opened the bonnet, she cursed her non existent brothers for their lack of help. Her mother received curses for having such a worthless daughter, who didn't consider anyone's feelings when she refused to get married and raise a family and would have had some children or a husband to help her if she had. 

Fortunately, this lazy, inconsiderate daughter had brought the [SHERP](https://truckyeah.jalopnik.com/the-russians-make-the-best-truck-in-the-universe-for-5-1758030433) and not her American Dodge, so was able to get it running and continue down into the muddy crater without getting stuck. Evgeniya nearly lost all faith in her curses when she was able to stand at the edge of the hole in the center of the crater and lay eyes on the meteor for the first time. 

She knew what it was the moment she laid eyes on it. It took her brain a few seconds longer to believe what it was seeing. There in front of her, in one piece, only slightly worse for wear, was the Iron Man suit. The only question that remained was whether or not it was empty.

********************************************************

Tony woke up not knowing who he was. The bed he was laying in was not his own, though he couldn’t have said how he knew that or what his own would look like. He lay there staring at the ceiling for several long minutes before turning his head to take in the rest of his surroundings. His neck muscles protested, stiff and sore as if he hadn’t moved positions in several nights. Highly unusual, especially because he didn’t recall ever sleeping for even a full night, let alone several. 

A woman's voice came from across the room, speaking to someone. She sounded angry, until he listened to her more closely. 

“Glupyy, bespoleznyy kusok barakhla! B`lyad'! YA dolzhen vytashchit' tebya na polya i rasstrelyat'. `tchyo za ga`lima? Ostav' tebya gnit' i umeret'!” [Stupid, worthless piece of junk! I should drag you out into the fields and shoot you. Leave you to rot and die!] Banging came to him from the same area, metal on metal, then cursing and more threats. 

“Idi syuda, ty nemnogo der'mo!” [Come here, you little shit!] and then, “Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka, blyad!” [Now i’ll fucking kill you bitch, motherfucker!] “Ty che, blyad?” [What the fuck?] More banging, then silence except the sound of someone, the woman maybe, probably, grunting for several long moments before releasing a loud shout, wordless mostly.

“Aaarrgahhh!” The clatter of some tool onto a metal surface was followed by a final curse. “Eto `suka piz`dets!” [This bitch is fucked up!]

That's when he realized a couple of things. First off, she wasn’t talking to another person, and second, she wasn't speaking in his native language. Everything was coming to him one way and his brain was repeating it in a way he understood it. Again, he couldn’t describe how he knew or even what languages his brain was understanding, just that he knew it was happening. 

Tony blinked several times and rolled out of bed. At least, he tried to roll out of bed. That was his intention, and the signals he sent to his body, but the response was less than expected. His upper body twisted and his hips turned sideways. His legs, however, remained inanimate, only rotating because they were attached to his hips. Back muscles cramped and protested, shooting streaks of pain up and down his spine. A wordless, gasping cry escaped his lips.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, he couldn’t see the woman approach, only hear her footsteps, until a pair of sturdy boots, encrusted in mud, appeared in his downcast view. Hands gripped his shoulders firmly, rolling him onto his back again. Eyes closed against the pain as he was moved, he couldn’t see her face right away. Slowly the spasms eased in his back, allowing him to unclench and relax into the pillows supporting his weight and adding extra cushion to the mattress.

“Oh, you weren’t supposed to be awake just yet, my friend,” she murmured under her breath as she adjusted his position and the pillows. She was still speaking her own language, but his brain seemed to have figured out the translation better now, despite or because of the pain. “Nicolay is fucking gonna get an earful when he gets back, little shit.” 

Tony opened his eyes as her hands left his shoulders, feeling her presence ease back away from him. The visage of a handsome woman greeted him, sharp amber eyes and a slight grin, interrupted by a wooden toothpick, making her angular face seem slightly more friendly than it otherwise would. She was grinning at him, or so it seemed to Tony, though she didn’t appear any less fierce by doing so. 

“Hello there,” she said, her heavily-accented greeting was spoken in a surprisingly melodic voice. “How are you feeling today?”

Tony felt the words come to his tongue in the language she had been speaking a few moments ago, but something made him hesitate, then answer in the same language she had spoken to him. “Hello, I’m not well. Everything hurts and I can’t move my legs.”

“Da, da,” she nodded her head vigorously, “Your back was broken in the fall, yes?” She shrugged and turned her hands palms up. “At least you are alive, but the suit and your back,” her shoulders twitched again, “they are not operational.”

Leaning in close and looking in his eyes, first one then the other, she asked him, “Do you know who you are today?” 

The sweet mint from her toothpick wafted up Tony’s nose, distracting him as he thought about her question. The logical answer would be to tell her his name, but again he hesitated, breaking her sharp stare to tilt his head and look at the ceiling. It was made of wooden planks, painted a grey shade that reminded him of military weapons and equipment. Bringing his gaze back to hers, he noticed her lips were pinched a little and her eyes had narrowed. She’s impatient, he thought, and immediately felt threatened, his shoulders tensing up. This made his back ache, though he braced himself against that pain, remaining still. 

“Does any of us really know who we are?” he quipped, raising his eyebrows and trying hard to look harmless and peaceful. 

Her grin grew larger and her eyes relaxed to a half-closed state as she let out a brief, harsh laugh. “So today you are the философ, like Plato,” she snapped her fingers a couple of times, “philosopher. Good! You are getting better. Well,” she reached out and patted his cheek, like one would a well-trained pet, “I know who you are. You will remember, eventually, little fucker.” 

Tony grinned at this, sure she was using the term affectionately and even if she wasn’t, he was in no position to take offense at the moment. He laid back, willing his back muscles to relax. It worked a bit, but spasms made him twist to one side involuntarily. Her hooded gaze regarded him for a long, silent moment before she abruptly turned and walked over to a nearby table that held a plastic set of drawers. 

She opened one and rummaged around in it a minute, then slammed it shut, cursing in her own language. In between the cursing and name calling,Tony gathered that someone named Nikolay, who she had mentioned earlier, hadn’t restocked the pain pills she wanted to give just yet. He watched as she opened another drawer and pulled out a pre-packaged syringe. Bending down to reach under the table, she opened a mini fridge there and pulled out a bottle filled with clear liquid. After gathering a few more items, alcohol swabs and such, she came back to the bedside. 

“My apologies, friend,” she said as she laid out the items on the bed covers next to him, “that lazy little shit Nicolay isn’t here for his normal duties so I will have to do this and I’m not well practiced any more.” She then proceeded to swiftly and neatly open the syringe and fill it from the bottle, then open the swab and a Bandaid. Laying out the items on a sterile cloth she’d opened along with the other items, she motioned her hands at him.

“Roll over that way. I need to stick this in your ass.” The way she grinned when she said that made Tony think she’d seen his butt before and was looking forward to seeing it again. If the shot was painkiller and would lessen the spasms so he could take a few moments to think before passing out from the drug, he was more than happy to let her look all she wanted.

He braced himself against more pain and rolled his shoulders away from the woman, his hips twisting and his useless legs following suite. A wince crossed his face as he felt them knock against each other, though it didn’t hurt. He wondered, as he felt the cool air hit the bare skin of his buttocks, if they were bruised from the knocking together. The sting and burn of the needle and liquid drug were small discomforts compared to the imagery his mind was conjuring up. A cool rush of numbness traveled up his back, easing the muscles into pools of remembered pain even as the actual pain quickly dissipated from them. 

The slackness of his back muscles had him rolling back towards his space amongst the pillows, giving the woman a moment of struggle as she pulled his pants up to cover his bare backside. 

She grunted a bit with the effort, adjusting the cloth around his waist so it didn’t remain twisted but lay straight down his legs. The grin on her face was interesting, showing Tony she was enjoying the process of handling him like this. He smiled, amused at this thought even as he feels his control on his thoughts slipping away from him. She pats his cheek gently, like a mama bear and her cub, before leaving his bedside. 

Tony looks up at the military-colored ceiling again, his world slowly spinning around him as he sank down into the drug-induced haze that his mind was becoming. He thinks about the information he had received from his brief interaction with his keeper. She was obviously his keeper and that he would normally be somewhere else than here.

Where here was remained a mystery, but one he would work on now that he was conscious of the question. That he had survived whatever had happened to break his back and a suit of some kind was the main nugget, but there was also the fact that he understood her native language and that she didn’t seem to know that he did. Or didn’t care, notated his brain. That led him to acknowledging that there was someone else involved, the unknown Nicolay. His medical caretaker, from what she had said. He didn’t know her name yet, but he was sure that would change. She seemed to be the type that would enjoy telling him who she was when it would seem the most important. 

He tried to take notes on the room and where a door might be other than the one she had come through from where she’d been working. Instead his mind drifted to reviewing what she looked like, her thick, muscular arms, full breast, the strength she’d shown when moving him around, that smile as she handled his pants and hips. He kept telling his mind to get out of the gutter, but that just brought on the giggles and he gave it up as a lost cause as the drugs finally pushed him off into the haze to pleasantly drift until he fell asleep, a goofy grin plastered on his clean-shaven face.


	3. Verse 1 - Line 3 - And One Again After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [System Of A Down - Aerials](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)
> 
> [Verse 1]  
> Life is a waterfall  
> We're one in the river  
> And one again after the fall  
> Swimming through the void, we hear the word  
> We lose ourselves, but we find it all  
>  
> 
> [Types of Brain Scans](http://www.abta.org/brain-tumor-information/diagnosis/types-of-brain-scans.html)

You move through your greenhouse with the ease of long years of practice, checking each of the plants growing in there, cataloging their growth and the results of your experiments on them. Sometimes there are more than one of them, depending on the experiment done and the differing results. These too get notated as you make your way around the benches holding the dirt-filled pots and trays of plants, heading toward your desk. Your husband’s voice interrupts you while you are making a note to contact Dr. Connor about the most recent results of his regeneration experiment.

“[Y/N], wake up. It’s time for the biopsy. Come on, honey,” his hand on your shoulder is light but enough to bring you out of your meditation state. You feel a wry smile on your lips as you open your eyes. He always thinks you are sleeping when you do this. 

“I’m awake, Killian,” you murmur, carefully removing any sign of irritation from your voice. Opening your eyes to prove it, you see him and Dr. Strange standing at the side of your bed, watching you and looking at your chart. You give them both your best smile. Surprisingly, Dr. Strange hides a smirk behind the chart log as Killian removes his hand and sticks it in his pocket. 

“Good, good. Uh, Dr. Strange is here to see you,” he says, pointing to the man unnecessarily, his voice cracking. A sure sign of nerves to you. This is oddly irritating today, instead of endearing as his over-obvious statements usually are. Perhaps, you tell yourself, it’s because you’re so worried about this yourself. That must be it.

You listen carefully as the neurosurgeon succinctly describes the procedure, surprising you with the information that you’ll be awake the whole time, with only a sedative that he describes as “something to make you not care” to keep your pain levels down. It seems you’ll be asked questions while Dr. Strange is checking out the weirdness in your brain so they will know if something goes awry. It doesn’t sound so bad when he says it, but you are sure it means something a lot worse than what it sounds like.

Killian kisses your forehead after the prep nurse shaves the small area of your head needed for the hole they are going to drill in your skull to insert the needle and the [stereotactic](http://www.abta.org/brain-tumor-information/diagnosis/biopsy-procedure.html) tools being used today. He rubs your head after the kiss, his smile only off a little bit. 

“See ya in a bit, honey,” he waves as he heads out the door to the observation deck overlooking your operating theater. You look around the room, but Dr. Strange has already stepped out, leaving only your nurse and the phlebotomist. Both of them give you the same smile, reassuring you as they prepare you for the surgery. Finally it’s time to go and you’re being wheeled down the hallway to the operating theater. 

In the large room, the dome ceiling overhead appears darker with the bright lights shining into your eyes. You feel something cooler than the saline solution slip into the vein on your forearm through the IV and everything becomes a lot less important, except what Dr. Strange is doing up by your head. You follow his movements with your eyes, your head fixed in the cradle as they drill the small hole and insert the hollow needle. 

“How are you doing, [Y/N],” he asks as he prepares to insert the stereotactic probe.

“Fine, Dr. Strange,” you hear yourself murmur, “although after this, don’t be surprised if I start calling you Stephen.” 

Your attempt at humor is met with a raised eyebrow by him, his hands remaining busy with his tools. The nurse to his left must be smirking, you think, as her eyes are crinkled and she is ducking her head, her hand held backward against her mouth. 

“Janice, if you need to take a minute to compose yourself, please get out.” Dr. Strange’s voice is low and firm, his tone cool, but Janice, the nurse to his left, murmurs her acknowledgement and steps away, allowing her spot to be filled by another older lady. 

“Maggie here, Doctor,” she tells him, receiving a nod in return. You catch all this in the mirror hanging down below the lights, angled for you to see what the doctor is doing. The seriousness of Dr. Strange is reassuring, his stern demeanor emphasizing how talented he is to your foggy brain. 

He finishes working with the tubes in his hands and catches your gaze reflected in the mirror. “Still with us, [Y/N]?” he quips, giving you a small grin. You feel like your answer is slowly making its way through the fog as he looks away to a screen you can’t see behind your head.

“Yes, Doctor, still here. Does anyone else call you Stephen?” You feel your right eyebrow crinkle as you wonder why you are asking such personal questions while he is trying to work. Looking up into the mirror you see him give a half-smile, which leads you to wonder why someone with such blue eyes might be single. Mentally you berate yourself for thinking such inappropriate thoughts, but at the moment you aren’t in a position to stop yourself, so you just do your best to be still and keep your thoughts to yourself. 

That’s when things started getting weird. 

The probe slips down into the space where the strange object is situated. You can feel it as a presence there now, close to the sliver but not quite touching it. The statement made by Dr. Strange and the prep nurse of how you won’t feel a thing is echoing in your mind even as the tip slides closer and closer. Your apprehension rises, along with your blood pressure. Faint in the outside world, you hear someone advise Stephen - Dr. Strange, you remind yourself that you need to keep it less personal - that your heartbeat has increased, but the only thing on your mind, literally and figuratively, is the probe reaching out to touch that enigmatic piece in your brain. 

“No! Don’t!” 

You don’t realize those shouts are coming from you until hands grab you, hold you down on the operating table. Stephen’s voice is in your ear, urgently bidding you to remain still.

“I’ve stopped! It’s okay! You need to remain still, [Y/N]!” 

The words sink in as you feel his weight on your left shoulder, his mouth exhaling warm breath in your ear. You will yourself to be still and the pressure of the hands lessen. A few more breaths come from his mouth, the faint scent of mint tickling your nose, before his weight is gone, leaving you feeling light and breathless.

You open your eyes and then blink. Blink again, and again, but the pink and purple fog remains, rolling in out of nowhere, heralding once again the nightmare, surrounding the people in the room, hiding the equipment, sweeping over and around you until you are alone once again. The sound of footsteps come to you, muffled as always. This time there is no running away, no avoiding the approach of whoever has been chasing you these past months. 

Your name comes to you through the fog, spoken by who, you can’t tell. Then a voice calls out, words forming but making no sense. They come again and you can discern a difference in the language. It’s not one that you know, but sounds Scandinavian. At least that's the connection your brain gives you to what you are hearing. Not that you really trust your brain at the moment, feeling rather betrayed by it right now. 

“She’s closer than most of them have been, Doctor.” The voice was suddenly clear and intelligible, the words English with only a trace of accent from what was said before. 

“Indeed, and that has been the difficulty, my friend.” The response that came startles you, as it could have been directly from Dr. Strange’s mouth. How did he get here? Your question is answered in the next swirling of the mist as it parts to reveal a man that appears similar to the doctor you know but with gray at his temple and foreign clothes instead of scrubs. 

He looks at you directly and begins to speak, but now his words are garbled, muffled as though underwater and you can’t understand them. Simultaneous to this shift in the clarity of your dream-state, you feel yourself being pulled backwards, even as you grab the edge of the operating table beneath you. The mists swirl, violent in their motions now, darkening as they close around you and hide the doctor and the tall blond man that accompanied him. 

Your eyes open and you are staring into the blue eyes of Dr. Strange once again, back in the familiar scrubs. Panting sounds assault your ears and continue until you shut your mouth and you realize you feel out of breath and damp, like you’d been pulled from the pool and left out to dry.

“Oh, hello,” your voice shouldn’t be so calm, you think as the words slip past your lips. 

Dr. Strange straightens up and pulls his scrubs down with his one loose hand. His other hand is over your head out of your line of sight, until you remember to look up at the mirror. There you can see he is holding the tube connected to the hollow needle and stereotactic probe that has caused so much trouble. His hand is rock steady, for which you are eternally grateful. 

“Glad you could rejoin us, [Y/N],” he quips, as though this were nothing more than a simple outpatient procedure. You swear you heard from somewhere behind all the equipment, someone mutter “...frickin ice water in his veins.” Whoever it was quickly silenced their comment as Dr. Strange swept his cold gaze around the room. “Well, everyone, back to work. [Y/N] doesn’t have all day to lay here waiting on your lazy asses.”

“May we continue?” 

It takes half a second or so before you realize he is addressing you. You take a moment to assess the situation, the possibility of being back in the fog, seeing that doppelganger of the doctor’s, and the dread that hits you every time you think about the probe touching the thing in your head. Over the top of the mirror, you catch a glimpse of the viewing room where Killian went to watch the biopsy. He’s still there, but sitting with his back to the window, his phone in his hand and up to his ear. As you watch, he tosses his head full of golden curls back, a sure indication of that wonderful laugh he was so capable of giving. The one that sounds so hollow in your memory at the moment. 

Suddenly the prospect of seeing the strange and unusual, of even having something go wrong, doesn’t seem so unattractive. Gripped in this newfound feeling of bold unconcern, you smile.

“Go ahead, Stephen, I trust you to do what’s best.”


	4. Verse 1 - Line 4 - Swimming Through the Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [System Of A Down - Aerials](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)
> 
> [Metal Meets Metal II: System of a Down - Aerials Meets Yngwie Malmsteen (w/ Rob Lundgren)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycyOtfFmdS4) This is a really cool heavy metal cover of the song. 
> 
> [Verse 1]  
> Life is a waterfall  
> We're one in the river  
> And one again after the fall  
> Swimming through the void, we hear the word  
> We lose ourselves, but we find it all
> 
> Warnings: near death experience, dreaming, non-con kiss

Tony dreams in his drug-induced sleep, images of his past fading in and out around him. He senses the familiarity without being able to name the places or people he sees. He is surprised by the violence in them, the fighting - shooting and punching, and especially being able to fly. The aliens freak him out the most though. 

In the moments before he wakes, when he can feel himself becoming more aware of his reality, he experiences what he can only believe is an actual set of memories, reliving the event as though it were happening once again around him. He is flying, beams of light coming from his hands to destroy the aliens, much like in the earlier dreams. It feels real this time, the addition of a metal skin over his own giving him extra protection even as it is taking damage. 

His heart pounding, he follows a group of the aliens on their air chariots down into the streets of the city. The name is on the tip of his tongue but he didn’t have time to think about it if he wants to stop them in time. Urgency, harsh and insistent, comes to him that he had to hurry to be there, somewhere (no idea where but he knows, or rather, his memory knows), in time. Time for what, again no idea, but still he pushes the power up to boost the speed, the thoughts of how to do so while he flies coming naturally to him.

Reaching an area of streets that is relatively clear of the alien beings, he looks around, wondering why he is here. In the distance, he can see a man on the top balcony of a building, shooting the creatures with arrows from a bow, odd but effective. The crunch and shake of the building next to him tells him that one of the big flying bony fish-types is nearby. They seem to have the maneuverability of a school bus underwater, slow and steady advancement their strong point. Hovering in front of the building he has found himself by, he begins to scan for people, ignoring the question of how he knows to do this.

The crunching and shaking gets worse, now in disjointed harmony with loud smashing sounds, as though a wrecking ball is taking potshots at whatever it is that is hitting the building. Without any more warning than a few cracks shooting up from the foundation, the building front splits wide open, allowing one of the giant flying creatures to smash its way through. 

Instinctively, Tony throws up his hands, the beams of light pulsing out into the face of the alien. It didn’t stop, of course, but it did turn away, only to have a large green man fall out of the sky onto its back. Tony stops the beams and watches as the giant green man pummels the flying beast on the top of its head, throwing it against the next building and breaking pieces off to freefall into the street below. 

The sound of a scream draws his attention away from the epic battle taking place before him, down into the street below in time to see a woman exiting the building to his right as it is falling down around her. Whatever it is she is carrying, she is protecting as though it were more valuable than her life. Before he can even form the conscious thought, he is flying down to knock pieces of stone away from her, keeping her from being flattened. 

The woman looks over her shoulder at Tony, her eyes wide with gratitude. He gives her a thumbs-up, only to see her eyes widen even more with fear just as a male voice shouts in his ears, warning him of the large piece of marble facade that is falling toward them both. Swooping down closer, Tony grabs the woman by the waist and boosts his propulsion units on his boots with a twist of his head and a tap of his chin, muscle memory from when he had his mind, he is sure. 

She screams as they shoot forward, attempting to outrun the threat falling behind them. The force of the stone hitting his back knocks the wind from Tony and pushes them to the ground. He braces his hands and knees against the shaking asphalt of the road, allowing the marble to crash over him as the woman lay safe beneath him. 

As the dust settles around them, the noise abating to leave a faint ringing in his ears, he looks down to see how she is doing. She is lying half on her side, half on her stomach, twisted into fetal position as though it would protect her if he hadn’t been able to. The back of her head is visible below her hands, as is the black spike impaled there. 

The shock of that black rod in the back of her skull doubles, then triples as Tony follows its length up to his own chest, where it emerges just above the bright light resting there. He gasps, but no pain comes from the area. He tries to wiggle, wondering if it is coming out of his back as well, which would be impossible, considering the weight of stone on his back at the moment. 

A long, gasping breath coming from the woman startles him and he glances down, amazed she is alive. The rod shimmers and fades as she moves beneath him, turning over to stare him in the face. Rubbing her head, she grimaces up at him, no sign she had been spitted. Her eyes catch hold of his gaze and he feels himself falling into their depths. He isn’t sure of their true color, but deep inside he swears he catches bright sparks of dark green, pulling him in until he is swallowed up.

*********************************************************

Tony’s eyes pop open and he comes to awareness staring at the military gray paint on the ceiling of the room where he lays, the mattress beneath him hard and uncomfortable. He tries to shift his weight to a more comfortable position and is reminded, harshly, that his legs no longer do as he tells them. The thump of his ankle against the wooden railing of the bed would probably have hurt, if he could feel it. Looking idly around the bed, he comes to the conclusion it must have been one of those waterbeds from way back in the day. Why else would the edge of the mattress frame be so high? 

Working with only his hands and arms, he manages to get himself sat upright, leaning against the thin pillows he’s managed to arrange behind himself, but at least now, he can look around. The pain is familiar but more intense and concentrated lower down than he remembers. Not that he truly does remember for real. Just a faint glimmer of muscle memory left in his body, his bones and tissues aching in sympathy. 

When he can breath again, see again, without the shimmer of red tinting his view, he takes note of what is around him. The walls are solid, their thickness apparent at the window sill across the room from the bed. An armoire stands against the same wall as the bed, more solid looking than any regular wardrobe. Wardrobe - the word triggers fleeting images of children in snow and a lamppost in a forest, but nothing that he can grab onto, anchor himself to. He supposes it might also have something to do with the expanse of white glowing snow seen through the window. 

The rest of the room is bare, a study of minimalist in wood. The walls are rough-hewn and unpainted, despite the ceiling having been coated with the ugly gray he’d previously observed. If not for the bed and armoire, it could have been part of a garage or workshop. The table that held the set of drawers where his keeper had retrieved the drug vial and needle from sits to the right of the window, next to a door that might lead out. 

The only source of light comes from the doorway cut into the middle of the wall opposite the wardrobe. It spills, bright and pale, onto a faded patterned carpet with worn fringes along the visible edge. No door sill, but it seems to drop down a step into the next room. The brightness precludes any details showing up from the room, only the smell of grease and metal and other mechanical things triggering feelings of nostalgia.

A scraping noise as the door in the outside wall opens, its bottom edge dragging the cement floor, draws Tony’s attention from the room beyond. Cold air blows in from outside, dry and harsh after the warmth of inside. He is unsure of what to do, unsure of who might be coming in the door. The woman’s scent isn’t in the drafty cold breeze. Instead it smells metallic and sweaty and a bit cloying, like too much aftershave. 

Two shapes come through the doorway, the first larger than the second. It isn’t quite as tall as the door, but does turn sideways to get through. Dark hair and clothes are offset by the shine of the light from the other room on the metal armor covering the left arm of the person leading the way in. His eyes glint cold and blue in the same light before he turns back and says something in a language other than Russian to the man behind him. 

That man comes forward, a fur coat draped elegantly over his shoulders. He replies in the same language to the large armored man, who steps back to the end of the bed next to the armoire and stands at attention, his gaze a sneer in Tony’s direction. The man in the fur steps up to the side of the bed and Tony is taken aback as he locks gazes with him. The hate and disdain in the man’s eyes is reflected in his grin as he brushes dark blond hair from his eyes. He reaches out as though he is wanting to shake Tony’s hand.

“Ah, greetings! It is good to see you are awake and mobile, as much as you can be in your state, that is.” His accent is not Russian, but definitely familiar. Tony wonders if he could place if he had his memory back. Without it he is lost and at a disadvantage, as he can’t bring out a language to greet this angry man in that would show him no weakness. As it is, he hesitates in reaching out for the man’s hand, wanting to see if he insists on a handshake for a greeting. The man grabs his shoulders instead, leaning over Tony to grin again, eyes still hateful.

“I am Nicolay Heinrich Zemo, your nurse and caretaker. I am so very glad you’ve come to stay with us. One of these days, you may even remember who I used to be.” With that, the man leans down and kisses Tony hard on the mouth, grinding Tony’s lips against his teeth then capturing them with his own. Tony is shocked, gasping for air only to have the man’s tongue slip in and force itself over his. 

Bringing his hands up to grab Zemo’s shoulders, Tony tries to push him off, but a sudden back spasm has him writhing and arching against the headboard, groaning in agony. Zemo pulls back, laughing. 

“So eager, aren’t we?” he chuckles. “No worries, my friend, we will have plenty of time to get to know each other again.” With another sneering chortle, Zemo stands upright and walks away, ducking through the lit doorway to the next room. The man at the end of the bed gives Tony a look that might have been pity on a softer face and follows him out. 

Slumping back down to his side on the mattress, panting from the pain that still torments his back and useless legs, Tony wonders if he really wants his memory back. Wishing that this was the dream, he lies there until the pain is too much, finally drifting out of consciousness and into silent oblivion.


	5. Verse 1 - Line 5 - We Lose Ourselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [System Of A Down - Aerials](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)  
>  [Verse 1]  
> Life is a waterfall  
> We're one in the river  
> And one again after the fall  
> Swimming through the void, we hear the word  
> We lose ourselves, but we find it all

You wake from darkness to a dimly lit room, Killian and Stephen - Dr. Strange, you remind yourself - waiting and watching you. Your husband is by your side as soon as he sees you open your eyes. His smile is his normal one, the one that you always thought of as kindly and concerned. Now it strikes you as patronizing and that irritates you more than his inattentiveness in the operating theater. You wonder if the anesthetic is affecting you, to make you think such things. Taking a deep breath, you smile back up at him.

“Hello, Killian, dear. I hope I haven’t slept the day away.”

His smile falters at your words, then drops, leaving him tight-lipped, the hard light in his eyes indicating the true state of his feelings. He brushes the hair from his eyes and gives that short, cutoff laugh that indicates he is annoyed. 

“Oh darling, you’ve not only slept the day away but three more besides. I don’t know what is going on, but you managed to convince Dr. Strange, who is a very busy man, you know, that you need to stay in the hospital instead of getting back to work.” He picks up your hand and gives it a sharp pat, the slap he uses to let you know you’ve displeased him without saying a word. The words are what he uses to make his point. “I can’t believe you're being like this right when we are trying to meet the deadline for our project.” 

Somehow, this is your fault. After all you are the one with the weird thing in her head. The one laying in the hospital bed instead of showing up at the lab to do the work that he needed to present for the contract he was vying for. The guilt hits you like it always does. If you hadn’t been in the accident in New York, none of this would be happening now. 

Killian nods, accepting the guilty look on your face as the appropriate response to his statement. Leaning down, he plants a kiss on your forehead. “Well, I’m glad you understand. You know what’s at stake, and I’m sure you don’t want to lose the contract. That would not be good for your reputation, remember that. Talk to the good doctor and get that thing removed, today if possible, so you can come home and get back into the lab. You're so brilliant with the plants, I’d hate to see all your work go to waste.” 

Flashing that bright smile of his that has caused more than one heart to ache, he nods to Dr. Strange by the window and leaves the room. 

************************************************************  
Dr. Strange had waited by the window patiently while Killian was by your bed, seemingly absorbed in the chart he held in his hand, a set of reading glasses perched on his nose. The glasses were new, something you hadn’t seen on him before. They looked good, simple yet elegant, and you wonder if they are just for reading. His eyes were sharp enough without them, in your opinion. Once your husband left, he came to your bedside, the chart now held in his fingers, a mere prop for him to fiddle with.

“Why do you let him talk to you like that?”

It was not the question you were expecting him to ask. More along the lines of ‘How’s your head?’ or ‘Do you have double vision?’ You push a little at the bandage wrapping around your head, thinking the nurse that applied it had been a little overzealous. It was more than necessary, or felt like it, at least. Meeting Stephen’s gaze is hard, which is why you are worrying at the wrapping. After a moment of him staring down at you, those blue eyes more like fiery stars now than pools of ice water, you roll your own eyes up without moving your head to look him straight on.

“I owe him everything. I...” you stutter and stop, surprised at how much the words you had been about to say now sound like a lie, even before you say them. You change them and work at keeping your face neutral while they come out. “I’m married to him, and that’s not something I take lightly.” 

Stephen’s lips tighten, thinning down to almost disappear. “He obviously doesn’t appreciate your loyalty.”

You make gestures with your hands, waving them around in weak circles. “We became close while working together. Without his help, I never would have gotten as far as I have in my research. I’m…” Again you find yourself shutting your mouth before saying what is on your mind. You weren’t about to apologies for your actions, not to anyone, even if he had just saved your life. 

The thought was jarring, shocking even. A feeling that this wasn’t the first time your life had been saved by someone comes over you, giving you goosebumps and a distinctly floating sensation, something you might have associated with deja vu. Snapping fingers bring your attention back to Dr. Strange.

“Hello! [Y/N]. are you there? Can you hear me?” He is peering at your eyes with his lighted pen, leaning in close to check your pupils.

Annoyed, you push his hand away and make a face. “Of course I’m here,” you quip. “Where else would I be?” 

Dr. Strange leans back abruptly, shock and wary surprise flashing over his face in rapid succession. Narrowing his eyes at you, his brows crimp together as he leans close to peer into your eyes again. 

“You don’t remember what happened, do you?” His question comes out soft and calm, a lot calmer than you expected, given the look on his face. You feel like a bug under a microscope, the way he is examining you. 

You give a slight shake of your head, the weight of the wrap around your head noticeable. Bringing a hand up to hold against the ache the shaking caused, you look up into worried blue eyes. 

“Tell me, Stephen, “ your whisper barely audible, “what happened. Why was I asleep for nearly four days? Why is my husband so upset that I’m still here? Did you remove the object? Can you?”

Your voice has risen several decibels as well as a couple of octaves by the time you run out of words. Dr. Strange grabs your shoulders and squeezes them, hard enough to make you gasp and try to pull away. His grip is strong, his fingers digging into your muscles as you go limp in his grasp. He slips his hands around to hold you by your neck and shoulders.

“[Y/N]! No, don’t faint! Stay with me! Keep your eyes on me! [Y/N]! [Y/N]!” 

You hear his voice as though from a distance, garbled and muted like it is coming to you through water. It reminds you of your nightmares, the voice through the fog calling for you. You search for his face, not wanting to be lost in the fog ever again. With the desire to see him again burning throughout your body, your eyes pop open to latch onto his gaze. The joy in his eyes fill you with the same feeling. Throwing your arms around his neck, you bury your face in the curve of his neck, keeping your eyes open even now. 

The view of curly brown hair and the blue collar of his scrub top are what you see, divided by a small patch of pale skin. A few freckles catch your attention and you focus on them until his voice comes again, this time low and echoed by the rumble in his chest as his words fall on your ears. 

“You agreed to continue the biopsy after I stopped your seizure. I was certain I could remove the sliver of unknown substance that has lodged itself in your brain. But the moment I touched it with the probe, something bizarre happened.” 

You feel him swallow against your shoulder as his words stop. Images of what had happened when the probe had first come close to the thing in your head flash across your inner eye, causing you to shudder. His arms tighten around you, comforting you with a warmth you hadn’t ever felt in someone’s embrace before. A deep breath and a sigh and you feel prepared to hear the rest.

“Tell me, Stephen,” your breath as you murmur the demand stir the hair within your gaze and he shivers. Giving his neck a squeeze of your own, letting him know you are ready to hear what he has to say, you take another deep breath.

His words are soft, so quiet you couldn’t have heard them if your ear weren’t right next to his throat.

“The moment I touched that thing with the probe, it was like a switch had been thrown. The room went dark, then filled up with pink and purple fog that seemed to be lit from within by some kind of glowing light. I know it sounds crazy,” he pauses and you feel him move as he wipes his eyes with his left hand before continuing, “but that’s how it looked to me. I couldn’t say what any of the others saw. Then out of the fog stepped two men…”

***********************************************************  
Doctor Stephen V. Strange, M.D. - POV [Four days ago, during your biopsy]

“Go ahead, Stephen, I trust you to do what’s best.” You are looking up at him from the table, a bleak resignation giving your eyes a shadow he'd never seen before. In the short time he'd known you, your gaze has been the most lively and animated he'd ever seen. Even faced with the possibility of a tumor, or worse, you'd smiled and assured everyone that you would be fine.

The seizure you'd just gone through hadn't been a surprise, just your reaction to it. Dr. Strange is certain he's never had any of his patients yell for him to stop during a biopsy before. 

After you agree to have him continue, he reduces the charge for the [stereotactic probe](http://www.abta.org/brain-tumor-information/diagnosis/biopsy-procedure.html?referrer=https://www.google.com/) to its minimum, then checks with you once more. You give him a thumbs up and a smirk, striking him as courageous. He gives you a slight smile in return, not wanting it to be obvious to his team. They'd wonder what was wrong if they caught him showing a sense of humor during an operation. 

Stephen wonders for just a moment what might be wrong, but shies from the answer. Nothing was wrong with having a sense of humor, he tells himself. Or finding a woman attractive, murmurs a voice deep inside him. One he hasn’t heard in a very long time. Taking a deep breath, he nods at the anesthesiologist, then glances up at the window of the operating theater. He isn’t sure why, but he wants to see what your husband’s reaction is to the delay in the biopsy. 

To his surprise, the man isn’t even watching. He seems to be laughing and on his phone to someone. A coldness strikes through Stephen’s chest at this sight and he glances back down at your face. Your eyes are closing as the anesthetic takes effect, giving you a peaceful, dreamy look. Licking lips gone unexpectedly dry, he pulls his focus back to what needs to be done. 

The probe enters the space between the corpus callosum and the lateral ventricle, aiming for the third ventricle as indicated by the ultrasound pointed at your head and projecting images to the screen on his left. Slipping it along the same path he had before, Stephen focuses on reaching the object resting where nothing solid other than your own brain tissue should be. He is so intent on the movement of the probe, he fails to notice the appearance of the fog, its pink and purple swirls coming into view like they have always been there, only just now becoming visible. 

Once he feels he has slid the probe deep enough, he glances over at the monitor and notices then that the image hasn’t changed since the last time he looked at it. 

“Maggie!” He looks around for the nurse that is supposed to be assisting him to ask her why the machine isn’t showing the updated imagery. The fog is everywhere around him and you, the only pieces of machinery showing are what’s directly in contact with the table you are lying on. His eyebrows knit together with the intensity of his concentration as he attempts to puzzle this phenomenon out. 

The sound of footsteps approaching, echoing like they are walking down a tiled corridor, catches his attention and he looks to the end of the operating table where they originate. The fog billows and swirls again, the inner lights shifting and parting as the shadows of two figures coalesce into two men, one of whom is very familiar. It is only after the new arrival steps forward into the area lit up by the operating lights overhead that Stephen sees the differences, the changes. 

The man in the red cloak, the man wearing foreign clothes and a glowing green amulet on a gold chain around his neck, the man wearing his face but with additional lines and scars, the man with grey hair at his temples giving him a more distinguished look, that man holds out his hand to Stephen, despite the fact that both of Stephen’s hands are filled with tools he is currently using to investigate the anomaly inside your head, and speaks in Stephen’s voice.

“Hello, Dr. Stephen Strange. I’m Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme of Earth, Dimension 19999.”


	6. PreChorus 1 - Line 6 - Cause we are the ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [System Of A Down - Aerials](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)  
>  [Pre Chorus]  
> 'Cause we are the ones that want to play  
> Always want to go but you never want to stay  
> And we are the ones that want to choose  
> Always want to play, but you never want to lose

Previously:  
[Stephen’s] words are soft, so quiet you couldn’t have heard them if your ear weren’t right next to his throat.

“The moment I touched that thing with the probe, it was like a switch had been thrown. The room went dark, then filled up with pink and purple fog that seemed to be lit from within by some kind of glowing light. I know it sounds crazy,” he pauses and you feel him move as he wipes his eyes with his left hand before continuing, “but that’s how it looked to me. I couldn’t say what any of the others saw. Then out of the fog stepped two men…”  
============================================  
The man in the red cloak, the man wearing foreign clothes and a glowing green amulet on a gold chain around his neck, the man wearing his face but with additional lines and scars, the man with grey hair at his temples giving him a more distinguished look, that man holds out his hand to Stephen, despite the fact that both of Stephen’s hands are filled with tools he is currently using to investigate the anomaly inside your head, and speaks in Stephen’s voice.

“Hello, Dr. Stephen Strange. I’m Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme of Earth, Dimension 199999.”  
*****************************************************  
[Three Days Grace - I Hate Everything About You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d8ekz_CSBVg)

Doctor Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme of Earth, Dimension 199999, came through the fog, Thor close on his heels, the two of them drawn by the pulse being released from the splinter that is lodged in the head of the woman lying on the operating table. With the energy of the tool being used to probe it, along with the proximity of two out of the three beings the splinter was attuned to, the veil between the two dimensions was thin enough to part and walk through. 

This particular veil was not very thick to begin with. Thor had honed in on the location of the woman first, so close he was showing up in her dreams. Strange had laughed and scolded him for it but was glad it might actually be easy to retrieve her sliver, for once. In all the other dimensions, her’s had always been the most difficult. He wonders if this is because of the multi-faceted nature of the woman from whom the splinters originated. Malaki wasn’t a singularity like Thor and other Asgardians, but she didn’t seem to be related to these other selves in the various dimensions they had found her splinters in so far. 

Tony and himself, interestingly enough, had ended up almost always being the same. When he had been able to find them, that is. Sometimes it was too late and they were dead. Sometimes, the timelines conspired against them and they were never born. Those were the hardest to take. If Thor hadn’t been with him for support, and courage he admits only to himself, Strange knew he might have given up already.

This one, with the thin veil and the woman so sensitive to their presence, had seemed like it would be easy. Until now. 

Stepping out of the fog, able to see clearly this time the sight of himself, whole and still very capable of delicate, intricate surgery, nearly froze him. Saying those words, greeting himself, was the hardest thing that he’d done since opening the portal on the side of the Himalayas back when he was still convinced his new abilities were the product of a fever dream. He had forced himself to hold out his hand to the alternate version of himself, knowing that version would look at his hands and wonder. 

Strange could guess the questions going through the alternate’s mind as he gazed on an older, less perfect, version. He had but one question for his younger alternative. One question that was hard to put into words around the bitterness filling his mouth.

In his childhood, his family had been one of those conundrums produced by society. They had an old name, their lineage being traceable back to Charlemagne, an old house full of antiques, and the manners to trade words with any other family from the upper East coast. What they didn't have was money.

He remembers going to tea parties with his mother and all the fashionable socials, and mostly being dreadfully bored enough to find a library and see how many books he could get through before being forced back into contact with his peers. The only parties he really liked was during the winter, when snow activities took everyone outside. This allowed him to be among the others without having to actually talk to them. 

The last time he had to attend one of these, before his genius was “discovered” and he was shipped off to make something of himself, they'd served a hot chocolate drink made of pure, unadulterated cacao. It had been that winter's current fad, quickly lost when people finally admitted they couldn't stand the taste. The flavor had been strong and bitter, with only a touch of sweet from the sugar added to the chocolate after the drink was poured. 

He had that feeling in his mouth right now, watching the surgeon he used to be, still was in this dimension, try to make sense of what he is seeing while keeping his wits about him. It was a bit disconcerting to see the concern on the surgeon's face as he checks the condition of the woman on the table. The taste in his mouth, the memory of that bitter chocolate, intensifies and slips down his throat and he can’t remember the question he had been poised to ask this younger version.

The surgeon looks at the hand extended in greeting, looks up and meets Strange’s gaze straight on, eyes that he sees in the mirror reflecting back at him, then that piercing stare shifts to the man on Strange’s right and gives him a cursory glance, before returning to meet his gaze again. 

“You’re from the future, aren’t you?” The surgeon tilts his head, his hands rocksteady as they hold the tools he is using to probe the woman’s brain. 

“What makes you say that?” Strange can’t help himself, the question slipping out in the tone of one used to having residents and interns blurt out random statements with no facts to back them up. The smile the surgeon gives him tells him the tone is recognized and found amusing.

“You are me, but with more…” the pause is delicate as the surgeon tilts his head a little, choosing his words with a deftness that Strange doesn’t recall ever having, being more concerned with exactness than anyone’s feelings, “wear. Grey hair, wrinkles, scars. The clothes are not something I’ve ever worn before. I have an idea of who your companion is, but I’m not sure why…” 

The surgeon stops and looks down at the woman, his expression showing the gears working in his brain as he puzzles things out. He looks back up at Strange. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? The thing in her brain isn’t…” His voice breaks and he hesitates, the unrealness of what he was about to say hitting him full force. 

“No, it isn’t. Not from Earth, not from anything in this solar system.” Strange confirms the surgeon’s conclusion, almost pleased at how he falters. Petty of him, he knows, but then he never claimed to be anything but human. “It’s a fragment of another being, a splinter of them, of her but not her. Like I am you, but not you.”

“[Malaki](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565673/chapters/23343855) was never human, Doctor. Her shards are scattered across the dimensions, just as those of her companions are.” Thor’s voice rumbles as he speaks up in defense of his friend. 

From what, Strange isn’t sure, unless the objection is to the describing of this woman as Malaki from another dimension. Strange is well-aware that Malaki isn’t human, but he has no real explanation as to why her shards were being found in the bodies of human women throughout the dimensions they had traveled. 

The surgeon nods as if in agreement to the statement. Standing up from the stool he’d been perched on, he lets go of the surgical tools that he’d been holding steady for several minutes now and stretches his hands. Strange feels his heart lurch at the sight of him letting go of the tools, then realizes they haven’t moved, even as the surgeon comes around from behind the table to stand in front of them.

Next to him, Thor makes a surprised noise and reaches out a hand as though he wants to grab the instruments. Or the surgeon, Strange thought. 

“How did you know you could do that?” Strange was decidedly curious to find out how the surgeon had figured out that he could let go of the surgical tools.

The surgeon smiles, making himself look even younger, especially without the beard and mustache that Strange now wears. 

“The machines connected to the table are not changing. The ultrasound has shown the same picture for the past few minutes. If they aren’t changing, then I deduce that they aren’t the real thing. Shadows of the real ones, maybe?” He walks towards Strange, his hands held out. 

Unsure of what the surgeon is doing, Strange retreats a bit, tucking his hands under his arms. The surgeon gives him one of those small, secretive smiles, the one that he himself usually saves for when he is acknowledging that someone might have done something smart. Pausing, the surgeon looks over at Thor, standing at Strange’s right shoulder, arms folded, glowering and trying to look like he isn’t watching the woman lying on the table. 

She was the reason why he was here, or at least she held the reason. Thor’s connection to Malaki, as well as his singular nature, helped Strange to home in on her splinters, a necessity when faced with a planetary population like the Earths they had crossed. Strange glances back over his shoulder at the tall blond, but before he can speak, the surgeon is talking, using casual tones like they were discussing a lunch menu.

“Hey, Thor, it is Thor, right? Why don’t you go stand next to her and keep an eye…” he falters and then smiles up at Thor, directly into his one remaining eye before continuing, only a hint of amusement in his tone, “on our patient there. Tell us if she twitches or blinks. We Stranges,” he motions at the two of them, “need to have a talk.”

Thor is moving to the side of the table before the last words are out of the surgeon’s mouth. The surgeon watches him for a few seconds, then turns back to face Strange. “Well, let’s have a look, shall we?” 

Strange glances down as the surgeon holds out his hands, palms up, then brings his gaze up to meet his younger self’s eyes. He was expecting anything except what was there. Compassion filled the surgeon’s gaze with a warmth that burned into Strange’s chest. Where did he learn that? The question forms and almost leaves his mouth, but he manages to stop it.

The surgeon answers it anyways, as though he could read Strange’s mind. Which would not have surprised him on this journey. On second thought, Strange finds it more likely that the surgeon interpreted his expression. He’d have to remember that.

“Father died when I was young. Seven or eight, I believe it was, right after Victor was born. Mother raised us by herself, with the help of relatives of course. We never had any real money, you know.” His hands were still held out, poised to accept Strange’s as if it was a foregone conclusion. 

Slowly, Strange lifts his hands and lets them settle into the palms of the surgeon, wondering what his response would be. It didn’t take long in coming. The surgeon strokes his thumbs down the back of Strange’s hands, running lightly over the ridges of scars left from the accident and the multiple surgeries. Then, fingers still light as feathers, he proceed to thoroughly examine them, one by one, turning them over and back, bending and moving the fingers until Strange feels the ache he used to before he discovered how to make it stop. 

Gripping them lightly, the surgeon holds onto them and looks at Strange, his gaze direct. “Who did the first operation?”

Strange swallows and takes a moment, reminding himself that this hasn’t happened to the surgeon yet, so it won’t mean as much. “Nicodemus West. The, uh, the time frame was past for optimal recovery by the time the rescue team found my…” he has to stop and take another moment, swallowing something that might have been tears if he hadn’t already cried and screamed them away years ago, before he can finish, “before they were able to rescue me and get me stabilized enough to operate.”

“Remind me to amend my living will in the near future,” the surgeon quips, then continues his examination. Strange, not expecting more than a pitying shake of his head, chuckles at that, feeling a sentiment he hasn’t allowed since his childhood. It takes him a minute to recognize it as similar to what he used to feel for his siblings. The surgeon keeps checking his reaction, glancing up every now and then. Their eyes would meet, then the exam would go on. Finally, the surgeon lets out a breath like he’d been holding it for awhile.

“I take it you ran out of options for restoring functionality?” Before Strange could answer, the surgeon asks another question. “Tell me, Doctor, will this happen to me? Since you are from the future, is it inevitable? I’d like to know so I can plan some contingencies.” 

His gaze is ernest and Strange is hard pressed not to give in and tell him a lie, tell him he will remain whole and healthy, and be able to do the things that Strange was never able to do. But that has never been how he was and isn’t what he does now. He looks his younger self dead in the eye and tells him. “It is very likely that this will happen, yes. It’s not a certainty, no. I am from the future, but not your future. I’m from another dimension, as I mentioned…”

“Ah yes, 199999, right?” At Strange’s nod, the surgeon breaks eye contact, glancing down as he thinks through the many variables. Strange waits, wondering which question the surgeon will ask first. Again he is surprised.

“What dimension is this one? Also, Thor mentioned something about companions? How many of them are there and have you found their splinters as well?” The surgeon is looking at Strange again, waiting for the answers, his seriousness belied by the youthfulness of his appearance. Strange has to gather himself again, stabbed and hollowed out by the desire to keep this one safe, to prevent history from repeating itself once more. 

An old aphorism comes to his rescue. "Scientia potestas est", loosely translated as “knowledge is power. “ Strange recalls the treatise by Sir Francis Bacon, speaking about the power of God, and can’t help but feel that the words are appropriate here. Speaking them aloud, in their original Latin, calms him. The surgeon gives him a look of acknowledgement, showing that he understands this is not how it’s normally done.

“This dimension is designated number 225,” Strange begins answering the questions posed by the surgeon with the easiest one, knowing he can’t reveal everything. Still, the more he knew, Strange reasons, the more he can infer. “There are three all together. Malaki, a female from another dimension than my own, and two males, human by birth, though they are not normal by any means.” 

Neither man notices the sound of thunder overhead in the sky as they discuss the circumstances that led to this meeting. Standing there, his hands being held by himself, Strange did not expect more than a nod of understanding once he comes to the end of his explanation, but again the surgeon surprises him. He steps closer and wraps Strange in a hug that feels like one from his own mother, like what home should have felt like all those years ago. Strange blames his response on his exhaustion, but doesn’t resist the urge to pull the surgeon close and hug him back. 

He has a moment of embarrassment when he wonders what Thor might think or say if he turned around at that moment, and glances up to check on the blond god, just to make sure he isn’t looking. That’s when he discovers that Thor isn’t standing at the table any longer. In fact, he isn’t anywhere in the area that is clear of the fog.


	7. PreChorus 1 - Line 7 - Always want to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [System Of A Down - Aerials](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)  
>  [Pre Chorus]  
> 'Cause we are the ones that want to play  
> Always want to go but you never want to stay  
> And we are the ones that want to choose  
> Always want to play, but you never want to lose
> 
> Warning: mentions of rape, talk of torture, cursing - English and Russian
> 
>  
> 
> [Metal Meets Metal II: System of a Down - Aerials Meets Yngwie Malmsteen (w/ Rob Lundgren)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycyOtfFmdS4)

Previously: Aerials - Verse 1 - Line 4  
_Tony dreams in his drug-induced sleep, images of his past fading in and out around him._

_The sound of a scream draws his attention away from the epic battle taking place before him, down into the street below in time to see a woman exiting the building to his right as it is falling down around her._

_The force of the stone hitting his back knocks the wind from Tony and pushes them to the ground. He braces his hands and knees against the shaking asphalt of the road, allowing the marble to crash over him as the woman lay safe beneath him._

_Tony’s eyes pop open and he comes to awareness staring at the military gray paint on the ceiling of the room where he lays, the mattress beneath him hard and uncomfortable. He tries to shift his weight to a more comfortable position and is reminded, harshly, that his legs no longer do as he tells them._

_A scraping noise as the door in the outside wall opens, its bottom edge dragging the cement floor, draws Tony’s attention from the room beyond._

_Two shapes come through the doorway, the first larger than the second. It isn’t quite as tall as the door, but does turn sideways to get through. Dark hair and clothes are offset by the shine of the light from the other room on the metal armor covering the left arm of the person leading the way in. His eyes glint cold and blue in the same light before he turns back and says something in a language other than Russian to the man behind him._

_That man comes forward, a fur coat draped elegantly over his shoulders._

_“I am Nicolay Heinrich Zemo, your nurse and caretaker. I am so very glad you’ve come to stay with us. One of these days, you may even remember who I used to be.” With that, the man leans down and kisses Tony hard on the mouth, grinding Tony’s lips against his teeth then capturing them with his own. Tony is shocked, gasping for air only to have the man’s tongue slip in and force itself over his._

_Slumping back down to his side on the mattress, panting from the pain that still torments his back and useless legs, Tony wonders if he really wants his memory back. Wishing that this was the dream, he lies there until the pain is too much, finally drifting out of consciousness and into silent oblivion._

**************************************************************

Four days go by, filled with what passes for therapy, which is what Zemo called it when Tony first tried to protest what was being done to him. Zemo’s ever-present guard, the one with the long, dark hair, a scowl that would frighten a bear, and an metal arm that Tony is pretty sure shouldn’t be possible without advanced technology, was always standing nearby, though rarely watching. 

Even in his obfuscated state of mind, Tony wonders how Zemo can even jokingly call say what he does is considered therapy and not torture. He’s definitely sure that rape on a daily basis isn’t going to help his back recover from being broken. Sometimes, bone pieces grind together, causing so much pain he almost passes out. Zemo never lets him. 

He is given just enough pain-killer to feel the sweet release from the pain, but not enough to make it disappear completely. Zemo never questions him before their sessions, or during. The gleam in his eyes makes Tony sick, but he learned the first day to not show it. Showing it, allowing himself to react to what happened, brought torture for real, in the form of red-hot pincers, surgical scalpels, and more that Tony can’t bring himself to think about. He thought about it the night after it happened and was so despondent the next day, Zemo pumped him full of heroin. And then raped him. 

It’s obvious to Tony that Zemo hates him, but is also wanting or needing him for something. Otherwise, he is certain Zemo would have tortured him to death already. The second day, the day of torture, Evgeniya had appeared after some time had passed and warned Zemo against going too far. Tony wanted to ask why the rape wasn’t too far, but Zemo had burnt his tongue to the point he couldn’t talk. She vanished once Zemo had put away his tools and pulled out the lubricant.

Tony wouldn’t have known how many days had gone by if Evgeniya hadn’t mentioned it when she finally came to talk to him. He’d been doing some stretching, rolling from one side to another to try and get his back muscles to stop spasming, and rolled back to face the room, only to find her sitting there, arms resting on the back of the chair she’d spun around and set next to the bed. 

“Hey, little fucker. How you doing? Zemo tells me you give him quite the workout in your ‘therapy sessions’, eh? Good for you, little shit.” Her eyes glint as she smiles at him in the dim room. 

“Why do you let him do that to me?” Tony’s voice is hoarse at first, from screaming, from crying, from swallowing tears and forcing himself to remain silent. “I can’t remember a damn thing but he nevers asks any questions and what he does to me...that’s not right. You need to make him stop…”

“Why should I? Hm?” She interrupts him, her face cold as stone now. “You and your fucking kind have done that to us our whole lives. Motherfuckers just come and take what you want, then leave, then come back and take some more. No one gives two shits for what is left behind, just some bitch with an unwanted child, some little fuckers to grow up and make more that can be fucking stolen when you bastards decide we have something you want.” She flips a toothpick into her mouth and chews on it for a moment. “Tell you what, little fucker. You want him to stop,” she leans in close enough that Tony can smell the mint flavor from the wood, “make him.”

The hard smile she gives as she rocks back on the chair, the sound of the metal legs hitting the floor, shoots through him, leaving despair in their wake. Tony recalls the words he’d first heard her saying and blurts them out, not caring if they gave away the fact that he could understand her. “Vy dolzhny vytashchit' menya na polya i strelyat' v menya. Ostav' menya gnit' i umeret'!” [You should drag me out into the fields and shoot me. Leave me to rot and die!] “Ty che, blyad?” [What the fuck?] 

Evgeniya is staring at him now, eyes narrowed as she evaluates him. Finally, she nods ever so slightly, the hard smile back in place. 

“That’s the spirit. Just watch out for that metal-armed motherfucker.” She stands and picks up the chair, spinning it back around to place it under the table at the end of the room near the outside door. Giving him one last glance over her shoulder, the smile still in place, she leaves him to his thoughts. 

Tony considers her answer, noting that she didn’t deny his request, but didn’t respond to it either. He wonders if this means he has more value than just hate-release for Zemo. She had practically challenged him to take her partner out, an idea that flooded him with dark pleasure whenever he brought it up to consider it. How to do it was the question now. What to do about the metal-armed guard was the other question. Looming behind all that, there was still Evgeniya’s motives. 

He falls asleep with a head full of ideas and real dreams for once, instead of fear and sorrow. Zemo wakes him and comments on how rested he looks. Tony smiles up at his torturer. 

“So what’ll it be today, Zemo? Handcuffs and spankings? Gonna take me from behind like a perro?” He wonders where that word came from, even as his brain translates it for him and his mouth continues to talk. “Or from the front and dream I’m Evgeniya?” 

The slap Zemo gives him brings blood from his lips, opening sores that hadn’t yet fully healed. Zemo’s expression is furious. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

Tony licks the blood from his lower lip, making sure to run the tip of his tongue slowly over the bruised flesh there. When Zemo’s eyes flick down to watch what he is doing, he rolls away, leaving his backside exposed, then twists back to rest his elbow on his hip. 

“Like what you see? You know you want some.” A suggestive wiggle his eyebrows brings Zemo’s attention to Tony’s face. When he sees that, Tony blows him a kiss and grabs his own butt cheek, then gives it a shake. “I’m waiting,” Tony sings.

Afterwards, Tony lays on his stomach, contemplating Zemo’s reaction. This session had been less physically abusive, but more intense. Almost like Zemo had been an eager lover for real, instead of a rapist. The sound of the small folding table being set up and his food tray being placed on it interrupts his introspection. He rolls onto his back, only a twinge of pain giving him a momentary pause, to watch the guard going through the dinner routine.

He waits until the man is bent over the table, securing the legs, before he speaks to him, soft and low, a mere whisper.

“Ey, ey Krasnaya Zvezda. Bol'shoy paren'! Vy govorite po-angliyski? [Hey, hey Red Star. Big guy! Can you speak English?]” Tony grins as the guard hesitates, then finishes setting up the table. Resting on his elbow, facing the room, he watches the guard walk through the door in the wall without a look back. He knows the man understood him. He’s just not sure if a response is possible. A tongue removed is one that doesn’t give away secrets. 

Reaching out, Tony pulls the small table closer, eyeing the food on the cracked stoneware plate. Tonight was beef stroganoff, apparently, served over plain white rice and topped with a dollop of sour cream sauce that had his mouth watering. He struggles to swing his unresponsive legs over the edge of the bed so he can sit upright to eat. It’s tempting to remain on his side, but he had decided after the day of torture that as a matter of personal pride, he would not take this lying down. 

He has his left leg dangling over the bed’s edge and is working on shifting his weight to that hip so he can move his right one when the man Tony had called Red Star comes back into the carrying another tray of food. Setting down on the small table, the man with the metal arm moves gracefully around to the side of the bed and, slipping his hands under Tony’s arms, easily lifts Tony into an upright position. He slides his hand down Tony’s right leg and lifts it to set next to his left one. 

Once Tony is settled, the man retrieves the chair from where it was by the table next to the outer door and positioned it on the other side of the small table. Sitting on it gingerly, the man arranges the plate from the tray on the table and picks up his fork. He looks at Tony and motions to Tony’s food.

“You should eat before it get any colder. The sauce is not good when cold, da?” His smile is more of a grimace, making Tony think it has been a long time since he’d used it. 

Still a bit stunned, Tony nods in agreement and picks up his fork. After a few bites, which Tony spends silently praising whoever the cook was that had made the sauce, he has to know.

“So you do speak English. And Russian.” He pauses, but the man just looks at him, methodically chewing the food he’d just scooped into his mouth. Tony nods. “Well, what do I call you?”

Giving Tony a wry smile, the man shrugs. “Red is fine,” he said around the food in his mouth, scooping more in as though he might not be able to finish if he didn’t hurry.

“Red? Is that your code name?” Tony takes a bite, watching the man’s, Red’s, expression, trying to read him in order to evaluate just where to go next with his questions. Red moves his metal arm, flexing it up and down, drawing Ton’s attention to it again.

“Red Star, like you said. Good enough.” The words were clipped, thick from either the food in his mouth, or emotions. Tony couldn’t tell which, though he did notice the furrow that had appeared between the man’s eyebrows. 

“Cool, that’s fine. Red it is.” Taking a drink of the water that Red had brought with the meal, Tony contemplates his next move. He considers the fact that the man in front of him doesn’t seem to have much more freedom than himself. That Red is talking to him, sharing a meal with him, bodes well, but caution - Tony stops that line of thinking. Now is not the time for caution. After all, he who hesitates is lost, he reminds himself.

“Okay, listen Red, I’m gonna need-”

“No,” Red interrupts, emphasizing the word with a chop of his metal hand, “no talking. Eat your food.” 

Tony stares gaped-mouth as Red scoops more food into his mouth, head down, eyes on his plate. Slowly picking up his fork, Tony nods and takes another bite. As he does, Red reaches down to his pants pocket with his flesh hand and pulls out a small notepad and pencil, sliding them over next to Tony’s plate. Only then did he look up to catch Tony’s gaze, face stoic, eyes wide.

Picking up the pad, Tony looks into Red’s eyes, blue as summer sky, and sees a glimmer of hope, faint but bright. The cynic in Tony’s head demands a test to see if this is a trap or really a way that might lead to his freedom. He scribbles on the pad and slides it over to Red’s plate, taking a bite of food with his return motion.  
_What is your real name?_

Red picks up the pencil and, a bit laboriously, writes an answer.  
_don’t know. Can’t remeber._

Tony looks at the answer, upside on the pad still by Red’s plate, thinking about it and why that might be. The spelling mistake was interesting, as is the fact that Red had seemed rusty when it came to writing. Carefully, he reached out and picked up his fork and the pad and pencil, switching the fork to one hand and stabbing a chunk of meat even as he writes out the next question, his leap of faith, or blind hope, depending on the viewpoint.  
_Will you help me escape?_

Red looked at the pad for a long time, taking several bites and cleaning off his plate before meeting Tony’s gaze once again.

“Da. Is good food, yes?” His nod is toward the pad, his eyes remaining locked to Tony’s, much longer than just waiting for a reply to a question about the meal. 

Tony grins, feeling the hope become real for him now. Nodding in return, he answers, both verbally and on the pad.

“Yes, my compliments to the cook.” Draining his glass, he sets it down and slides the pad back to Red, having written the next bit with his other hand.  
_Here’s what i need - weights, wheelchair, laptop_

Red stands and clears the table, stacking the plates and other items and making the pad disappear into his pocket. After he leaves, Tony lays back on the bed and begins whistling, formulating his plan.


	8. PreChorus 1 - Line 8 - And We are the Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> System Of A Down - [Aerials](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)   
> [Pre Chorus]  
> 'Cause we are the ones that want to play  
> Always want to go but you never want to stay  
>  _And we are the ones that want to choose_  
>  Always want to play but you never want to lose

Previously: Aerials - [Verse 1 - Line 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982732/chapters/32207295):  
 _[Stephen’s] words are soft, so quiet you couldn’t have heard them if your ear weren’t right next to his throat._

_“The moment I touched that thing with the probe, it was like a switch had been thrown. The room went dark, then filled up with pink and purple fog that seemed to be lit from within by some kind of glowing light. I know it sounds crazy,” he pauses and you feel him move as he wipes his eyes with his left hand before continuing, “but that’s how it looked to me. I couldn’t say what any of the others saw. Then out of the fog stepped two men…”_

Previously: Aerials - [Pre-Chorus 1 - Line 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11982732/chapters/32750688):   
_Neither man notices the sound of thunder overhead in the sky as they discuss the circumstances that led to this meeting. Standing there, his hands being held by himself, Strange did not expect more than a nod of understanding once he comes to the end of his explanation, but again the surgeon surprises him. He steps closer and wraps Strange in a hug that feels like one from his own mother, like what home should have felt like all those years ago. Strange blames his response on his exhaustion, but doesn’t resist the urge to pull the surgeon close and hug him back._  
 _He has a moment of embarrassment when he wonders what Thor might think or say if he turned around at that moment, and glances up to check on the blond god, just to make sure he isn’t looking. That’s when he discovers that Thor isn’t standing at the table any longer. In fact, he isn’t anywhere in the area that is clear of the fog._

Sidestory - [Jane Foster Saves the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14482566/chapters/33455835) \- [or Where Thor Went Off To]

=============================================

Strange lifts his head and tilts it to one side, questioning why this is. Feeling Strange withdraw, the surgeon steps back and checks his reaction, then follows Strange’s gaze over to the table. 

“What the…” he starts to say, only to be interrupted by lightning erupting down from the ceiling to form into Thor. The big, blond god gathers himself, standing tall and reaches out for the forehead of the woman laying on the operating table in front of him, electricity sparking and arcing between his fingertips.

“No! Don’t!” The surgeon’s yell halts his movements and Thor turns back to see the two men behind him, one leaping forward as if to stop him. 

Flinging out his right hand toward the surgeon, Thor easily stops him from getting any closer to the table and to the woman. His one good eye is glowing, blue-white sparks falling down his cheek like electric rain, as he moves his other hand back over the woman’s forehead, the slender arcs of electricity dancing over her skin, caressing it. He dips his head down, angling it as though to catch a better glimpse of the woman’s face.

Stepping up to where the surgeon still stands, held by Thor’s fist entangled in his scrubs, Strange lays a hand on Thor’s wrist and the surgeon’s shoulder. “Let’s not act too hastily. Thor, tell us what you are doing.”

Thor glances over his shoulder at the two doctors, sorrow shadowing his face. “We need to find the splinter that is here already as well as call the missing splinter to join its mates. Jane says if the one we know of is stimulated, then the other two are sure to respond.”

His gaze drops again, resolute sadness etching a grimness onto his normally enthusiastic countenance. His fingers unknot themselves from the surgeon’s scrubs and, with both hands now, he directs thicker strands of electric energy into the woman’s head. The energy dances over her skin, illuminating it from within for a moment until it seems to change direction and converge in the middle of her skull. Her body twitches, fingers spreading out and back arching slightly, as the electricity surges, changing from pale blue to darker blue, then to green, lightening up until it is nearly white. 

Beside him, Strange hears the surgeon gasp, though in alarm or anger, he isn’t sure. The energy ceases in an instant as the surgeon steps forward and everyone is caught in a moment of expectancy. The woman’s eyes pop open, revealing a bright green light, pale as new grass, that quickly fades into her normal color before the lids droop and then close as the rest of her body relaxes once again on the table. Thor’s shoulders slump for a moment, then he breathes deep and pushes himself up again, turning to face them. 

His demeanor solemn now, he steps up and grabs the surgeon by the shoulders, giving him a slight shake. “I’m sorry for that. It’s hard to know one’s destiny ahead of time, but I know you are strong. You, like all of your other selves, will be stronger for this. And this world will be better.” 

With a firm nod at Strange, Thor walks back into the fog and mists that still swirl around them, leaving Strange and the surgeon alone once again. Thunderous peals of sound roll throughout the mists, vibrating the metal equipment in their racks. The surgeon gives Strange a baffled look, folding his arms across his torso. 

In a voice strangled with unexpressed emotion, the surgeon speaks. “I guess that answers half of my second question. It seems I am one of the recipients of the other two splinters.” 

He rocks back and forth on his heels, arms still folded, head down as he contemplates the distance between him and his future. The rocking stops and he looks up at Strange. “Have you…? Did you…?”

Strange shakes his head, knowing what he was being asked. It is something he’s wondered many times since this happened. Would he receive one of the splinters? He hadn’t yet and hasn’t given in to the temptation of looking ahead to see if he would. Half of him wanted to look, wanted to receive one. The other half was scared that he wouldn’t. If he looked, if he knew for certain, that knowledge might break him. Especially if it meant knowing that he might not ever see either of them, Malaki or Tony, again. 

The firm grip of the surgeon’s hand on his shoulder brings him back to where the man stands, waiting for the rest of the answer. Strange doesn’t hesitate. “The other one that received the splinter is Tony Stark.” 

=====================================

“Wait,” you lift your head from Stephen’s shoulder and look up into his eyes. For a moment you’re distracted by their soft blue depths, then you remember your protest. “That’s not possible. Tony Stark is gone. He flew the nuke up into the wormhole six months ago. And why did you let Thor zap me with his electricity? Did you get an autograph or anything? No? Just let him light up my head?”

Stephen smiles, knowing you’re not serious, except about Stark. He can see the worry in your eyes, behind the joking and sass. He reaches up and brushes a lock of your hair out of your eyes, smiling gently. “No, silly, I didn’t get Thor’s autograph. If anything, you’ve probably got it etched into your brain. Are you going to let me finish the story?”

You give him a shy smile in return. Some part of you wonders if a side effect of having brain surgery with mystical interruptions causes heart palpitations, but your heart is telling you the truth. You’ve fallen for your doctor, and if that isn’t cliche enough, you know you can’t be with him right now. But for the moment, you can let him finish the story of his unexpected meeting with his alternate self and the God of Thunder, and wait until you are out of the hospital to talk about anything more. 

“What else is there to tell? Thor left, the other Doctor Strange leaves, you close up my head - “

“Listen, Miss Sass,” Stephen is smiling as he interrupts you, but emotions contrary to that smile lurk in his gaze, “just because you see the outcome -” 

You interrupt him this time, your voice soft. “Doesn’t mean you know how it happened. Right. He told you something, didn’t he?”

Dropping his gaze, Stephen sighs, then looks up and out the window of your room. “He told me what happened to him.”

“I thought you said he didn’t get a splinter.” Perplexed, you examine Stephen’s face, looking for a clue of what he might be talking about. 

“No, he hasn’t. But there’s - it’s hard,” he stops and swallows, fear and sorrow visible now in his eyes, and in the shaking of his voice when he continues, “he had an car accident that, um, that destroyed, uh, destroyed his hands.”

He wipes his eyes and sniffs against the tears threatening to fall. When his eyes close, you hug him again, unsure of how to console him. This happened to the other Doctor, but Stephen is acting as if - that’s when it strikes you - he is expecting it to happen to him. 

“Did he say you would have the same accident?” Your voice is low as you try to control your own emotions. Fear is there, but so is anger. Something else is bothering your thoughts, something to do with this, but right now you can’t remember and thinking about anything but this is making you want to go back to sleep. 

“Not exactly, but -” he raises a finger to your mouth when you start to speak, then continues with what he is saying, “he confirmed that I am the third one to get the splinter, and since there are only three splinters, and they seem to come to their designated target only during times of trauma, it’s highly likely that I will be involved in an accident as well.”

“Oh, Stephen, I’m so sorry!” 

Your apology is lost as you feel yourself breaking into tears. If you hadn’t been such a bother about your headaches, then you would never have gone in for a CT scan and - your thoughts are halted by Stephen wrapping you in his arms and kissing your temple. Eyes closed, you lean against him, laying your head on his shoulder. 

“Hush, my dear. I am not sorry. I have met you and I feel that this would have happened even if you hadn’t come in for an exam.” 

You smile at that, wondering how you managed to get so lucky and yet be so unlucky at the same time. If he can be strong about this, then so can you. Reminding yourself that everything has a way of working out, something you’ve seen time and again in your work with plants, you sit up and open your eyes, searching for his face. You find him smiling down at you, his blue eyes darker but clear and warm. 

“You think it’s destiny then? That we would have met no matter what?”

“Because of the splinters, yes. I can’t say I’m sorry, not now.” Stephen’s demeanor grows serious now. “There are a couple of things that we are going to have to take care of though.”

“My husband.” Your wry smirk brings an echoing smile to his mouth, though from the look in his eyes, you wonder what he is thinking. “I think I need to reconsider my options, and probably my career.” 

He nods, remembering what you’ve told him about your situation. “Also, when Thor did what he did to the splinter in your head, it’s supposed to draw the other two, which means -”

“I have to find Tony Stark,” you whisper. 

You say his name quietly, as you always do for fear of your husband overhearing, even though he isn’t around. The moment you do, it’s like a light bulb has lit up in your brain, pointing you in the right direction. Somehow, you are certain that your planned trip to Russia is where you need to go to find him. Thinking about it, telling yourself you’ve imagined the connection, does no good. 

“You know something. What?” Stephen murmurs in your ear, leaning close enough that you feel his breath on your skin. Sensual and warm, you close your eyes and breathe deeply, enjoying this moment. It’s obvious, to you anyway, that this won’t last. 

“I have to go to Russia, like I was planning. He’s there, I can feel it.” 

“But your husband…” 

“Yes, I know. I’m going to speak to him before we leave. He deserves that much, at least.”

Stephen looks away, his face saying what he is keeping his tongue from speaking. He doesn’t agree, but you know you have to attempt a clean break, even as you tell yourself it’s not likely to happen. 

“I promise, I won’t be alone with him. I know better than that.”

Leaning forward, he kisses your forehead. “Thank you. That helps.” 

You catch the wistfulness of his gaze, the desire echoing in you, the wish that you could both just run away and be together. This isn’t a romance novel, so you both have to be responsible and work towards that goal. You have your own concerns about his safety.

“Please don’t drive reckless. Don’t drive at all if you can help it.” 

It’s not something you’d normally ask of him, knowing the accident could be anything. Just because the other Dr Strange had been in one, doesn’t mean yours will. Telling yourself that doesn’t make the premonition go away, no matter how hard you wish. He kisses you again, this time on the mouth, gently at first, then increasingly demanding. You return the demand, desperation mingling with passion until you have to stop or pass out from lack of air. He holds you then, while you cry, your mess of emotions leaking out until they dry up and you can bring yourself to look up into his eyes again. They’re red around the rims but dry, making you glad he’d had a moment to cry himself. 

“I have to go now.” He holds up his phone, showing you the time, as well as the several message notifications crowding his screen. 

You reach up and caress his cheek, doing your best to not laugh as you attempt to look longing and full of princessly grace. “I’ve stolen you away from your duties long enough. Return to me when you are able, my prince.”

Laughing and blushing at that, he kisses your cheek and hugs you, then slips from the hospital bed to stand and stretch. You hold out your hand for one last touch, knowing you’re being greedy. He takes your hand and kisses the back of it, causing you to blush. With a shake of your head at his antics, you smile.

“Thank you again, Stephen. I can’t -”

“Then don’t.” He winks at you. “I’ll see you later, k.”

Blowing a kiss as he walks backwards to the door, he pulls it and darts out, gone even as you make like you’re catching it. You hold your hand shut for several minutes, wishing and praying to whoever is listening, especially Thor, God of Thunder, that you and Stephen can survive what’s coming and end up together. When you get to a point where you’re repeating yourself, you call the nurse and ask for something to eat, your stomach having recognized that you haven’t eaten real food in a very long time. 

To your left, your phone rings silently, vibrating the table. You look at it, see it’s from Killian and let it go to voicemail. Picking it up, you open the browser and start searching for unusual activity in or around Russia. You can feel a pulse in your head now, when you focus on it, pointing you toward the other splinters. The one with Stark was definitely in the same direction as your upcoming trip. The other one, the one you didn’t tell Stephen about, is overhead and out in space. You aren’t sure how you know this, only that you can feel it hovering above, like a Sword of Damocles, waiting for the thread to break.


	9. Pre-Chorus 1 - Line 9 - Always Want to Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: swearing/cursing/foul language in English and Russian [blame Google Translate for any mis-spellings or mis-translations]; talk/implications of rape - no descriptions; torture; bits of fluff
> 
> System Of A Down - [Aerials](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L-iepu3EtyE)  
> [Pre Chorus]  
> 'Cause we are the ones that want to play  
> Always want to go but you never want to stay  
> And we are the ones that want to choose  
>  **Always want to play but you never want to lose**
> 
> Metal Meets Metal II: System of a Down - [Aerials Meets Yngwie Malmsteen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycyOtfFmdS4) (w/ Rob Lundgren) This is a really cool heavy metal cover of the song.

Previously: Pre-Chorus 1 Line 7  
_Red looked at the pad for a long time, taking several bites and cleaning off his plate before meeting Tony’s gaze once again._  
_“Da. Is good food, yes?” His nod is toward the pad, his eyes remaining locked to Tony’s, much longer than just waiting for a reply to a question about the meal._  
_Tony grins, feeling the hope become real for him now. Nodding in return, he answers, both verbally and on the pad._  
_“Yes, my compliments to the cook.” Draining his glass, he sets it down and slides the pad back to Red, having written the next bit with his other hand._  
_\- Here’s what i need - weights, wheelchair, laptop_  
_Red stands and clears the table, stacking the plates and other items and making the pad disappear into his pocket. After he leaves, Tony lays back on the bed and begins whistling, formulating his plan._  
=========================

The man Tony calls Kraznaya Zvezda, Red for short, isn’t short, though he’s not much more than six foot either. He’s brawny though, and with the scruff of beard, dangerous looking, even if the arm covered in metal plating was ignored, which is almost impossible. His mind works over the last little while spent in the company of the broken man. It feels like rusty wheels turning, his thoughts grinding together instead of flowing smoothly like they do when he’s on a mission. Then it’s just a matter of letting go and letting his training and instincts, some programmed into him, takeover and do the work. 

This time is different. He hasn’t ever been out of the cryo-crypt for such a long time until now. It makes him wonder what’s changed. There hasn’t been orders given, not for a mission anyway. Just the commands that Vanko has given him after activating his programming. She’s not HYDRA, that much is apparent. How she acquired him is not his concern, but he wonders if his former masters had told her everything about him. He’s counting on that answer to be no.

He reaches his destination, her living area in the big house up the hill from where the broken man is being held, and enters on silent feet. She’s at her workbench, various machines and mechanical arms holding tools surrounding her. There’s a line of red tape on the floor, outlining a box around her workbench that marks the safe distance anyone should stand. He stops there, remembering the story she told him when he’d first awakened of how she figured out where to put the tape. Spots of blood still stain the concrete between him and her. 

She continues to work on the project in front of her as he waits at the line. He’s been ordered to never interrupt her, but he’d seen Zemo do it, much to the man’s regret. Vanko is not one to take an infraction of her rules, her law, lightly, as Zemo found out. This line of thinking brings him back to what the broken man’s eyes had shown him the last time Zemo had done his “interrogation”. 

“Mission report.” 

Her words bring him to attention, part of the programming he’s received that allows her to command him. Standing at attention, staring straight ahead, his eyes still follow her as she walks around him, going to the front when she’s behind him, tense at the fact that he can hear her, feel her, but not see her, until she’s around to his other side and he catches her from the corner of his eyes, looking at him watch her. It’s a game she plays, exerting her dominance over him, knowing he can’t do anything unless she allows it. 

When she stops in front of him, standing on the other side of the tape line facing him, he stands at ease, hands behind his back and begins to speak, giving his recap in Russian, as she had instructed. 

“I was assigned to share a meal with the man being held in the building down the hill. He ate his food and spoke to me in Russian. He asked if I spoke English, which I confirmed that I did. We then continued the conversation in English, which I spoke poorly.”

“Good.” Evgeniya looks pleased at this, though she had been the one to suggest it to him for anytime someone tried to speak to him. The suggestion, as all her other rules, was to be considered law unless stated otherwise. Her satisfaction comes from him remembering this and obeying her word. She nods, giving him permission to continue. 

“We discussed the food, and as per your instructions, I gave him the pad and he wrote on it.” At that point, he hands over the pad, showing the notes Tony had written on it. 

She holds up the note Tony had written asking for help with his escape. “What was your reply?”

Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he replies in a monotone. “He believes I will help. This way he will come to believe he can trust me.”

She throws her head back and cackles with laughter at this, enjoying the fact that she is manipulating her prisoner, even as he might be thinking he can break free of her control. Wandering over to her desk, which sits to the left of her workbench, she grabs the bottle of Coca-Cola sitting there and takes a long drink from it. Still holding it, she turns back to look at the soldier.

“What did he ask for?”

“A laptop, weights, and a wheelchair.” He is watching her from the corners of his eyes again, keeping his head facing forward. It’s not for him to watch what she does, according to her, but he recognizes how dangerous she is, so tries to keep her in sight whenever possible. 

“Oh? He really is serious, isn’t he? Does he think he can walk out of here eventually?” Sauntering over to stand next to him, she watches his face. Almost as tall as he is, she doesn’t have to look up very far in order to be eye to eye with him. 

“I think he’s planning on killing Zemo.” He knew the broken man hadn’t said anything directly about that, but after overhearing her talk to him, rant at him, and then seeing the look in the man’s eyes, he is certain. He knows what death looks like, and Zemo’s is in that man’s plans for the future. 

Evgeniya nods and takes another sip of Coke. “Give them to him,” she says, tossing the empty bottle in the recycling bin to his right. “He’s going to need them to salvage the suit. If and when he recovers his memory.”

He nods in acknowledgement and turns to leave, only to stop when she calls out to him. “And Soldat, don’t let Zemo fuck him anymore. You save him from that, he’s bound to think you’re his friend.”

Saluting her to let her know he understands and will obey, he turns back and heads out the door, gleefully flexing his hands, eager, for once, to enforce her ruling. 

=======================================

Tony is stir crazy. He’s been on this bed now for the last five days, that he can remember, and probably longer than that. It has his shape worked into the mattress and the blankets smell like him. The sheets are clean, or were before Zemo fouled them with his stench. His stomach rolls at the thought of having to sleep on them another night. The thought of staying here on the bed another minute is enough to get him moving.

He manages to fall off the bed after several minutes of struggling. The edge kept catching his butt and keeping him from going farther. Not until he rolled over to his stomach was he able to slide onto the floor, where he rested for a few more minutes before beginning to crawl to the door. At first he tries to walk on his hands, dragging his legs behind, but that causes too much pressure on his lower back and soon has him flat on the floor in pain. Switching to the soldier’s crawl works better, he finds. He’s nearly to the door when the sound of footsteps coming through the next room and echoing in the hallway reaches him. 

Cursing, he looks around the room. He needs to get to some other place besides the door or it’ll look too suspicious. The closest place he can get to is still several feet away from him. Still, someone finding him trying to get to the bathroom is better than them finding him near the door. He’s about halfway there when Krasnaya [Red] comes through the door, carrying a large metal tub. The smile he gives Tony is scary, but Tony is glad to see it’s him and not either of the other two. 

“What you do? You have to go bad, da.” Red chuckles, setting the tub down with a ringing thump near the bathroom door. 

“Yeah, bad.” Tony laughs weakly, shrugging. “What’s with the tub?”

“Bath time.” Red grunts, bending down to scoop up Tony from the floor. Tony finds himself easily lifted up and taken into the bathroom, where Red helps him with the loose pants he is wearing and situates him on the toilet. While he sits and waits for his body to decide whether it wants to do anything, Red leaves, only to come back with a black hose. He gives Tony another one of those scary smiles, to which Tony grins back nervously. 

“Ha ha, your face!” Red shakes his head and kneels down next to Tony. Reaching under the sink, he connects the hose to the hot water pipe. That’s when Tony notices the hose runs out the door and up into the tub. He starts laughing and doesn’t stop until Red helps him off toilet and out of the rest of his clothes. 

Arms around Red’s neck as his clothes are being removed, Tony finds himself fascinated by the movement of Red’s metallic arm. Under the mobile plates, he catches glimpses of what could be circuitry, LED lights, and what seems to be some kind of clear covering, which he supposes could be for waterproofing the electronics. Images and thoughts start firing through his brain, faster than he can catch them to figure out what they might be. As he’s about to ask questions,  
Red sets him on the edge of the bed and tugs at his arms. 

Letting go of Red’s neck, Tony feels his shirt being pulled over his head. It amazes him yet again how quickly the man can move when he wants to. Once the thick cloth of his shirt is gone, a serious chill hits him and he becomes aware of how cold the room really is. The next thing he becomes aware of is the glowing circle in the middle of his chest. 

“What the fuck!” Tony rears back, trying to examine this thing he hadn’t seen since he awoke, but is so intimately familiar its image rings in his brain.

Red catches him by his shoulders before he falls completely backwards. “Eto `suka piz`dets!” [This bitch is fucked up!]

Tony looks up at him, scowling at the comment, then sees Red is smiling, though less scary. His expression softens to more of a perplexed smirk as he shakes his head. 

 

“Looks like you and me have more in common than we thought, eh Red?” He murmurs the words, not sure yet if the room is bugged. 

Red nods enthusiastically. “Da, both of us are fucked.”

“You could say that, friend.” Patting Red’s shoulder, Tony’s smirk softens even more until it’s actually warm. 

Red returns the soft smirk, then looks downward and curls his lip in amusement. “Seems your little guy wants to say hello as well.”

Flushing with embarrassment, Tony looks away. “He’s got a mind of his own, these days.”

Nodding, Red pats his arm. “Da, this is the back injury. Your body gets the signals mixed up. When you get better - “

“If I get better…” Tony interjects, unable to fully agree with such an optimistic view.

“You will. You are strong. This is just setback.” Red gives Tony a look that seems as if he’s going to make him recover just on will alone. He tilts his head, a curious look coming over his face. “So, friend, what should I call you?”

“How about slomlennyy chelovek [a broken man]?” Tony lets out a soft, deprecatory chuckle. 

“Nyet, eto ne tot, kto vy yest'. YA nazyvayu tebya Siyayushchaya zvezda. Siyat', byt' korotkim. Eto oznachayet, chto my razdelyayem imya.” He gives Tony another one of those looks, a determination showing deep inside his eyes that gives Tony pause.  
[No, this is not who you are. I call you Shining star. Shine, to be short. This means that we share the name.]

Tony is still contemplating this when Red scoops him up again and deposits him in the tub. The water is hot enough to scald but feels heavenly. Soap bubbles float over the surface and cling to his skin, adding to the relaxation seeping into him with the water. Sighing deeply, he leans back and lays his arms along the edge of the tub. 

Red brings him a sponge and a washcloth, grinning again, though now it looks like his face has remembered the action better, as this one is softer and actually looks happy. He brings the chair he’d sat on earlier and sets it next to the tub, sits down and grins again. 

“So you’re gonna keep me company?” Tony looks away as he asks.

The question is meant to come out as a joke, but instead it sounds more emotional than Tony had wanted. He wonders if he’s becoming too attached to this guy, just because they have a few things in common. Part of him wants to accept it, wants someone to rely on in this terrible situation. Another part of him, one that seems to be in the process of awakening more everyday, tells him to keep his guard up, stay alert, don’t trust anyone, especially someone that works for the other side. This newfound awareness threatens to give him a migraine, so he makes a pact between the two sides, promising to stay wary while extending his hand to a possible ally.

“Da, can’t let you drown. You can’t brace yourself with those fucked up legs. Besides,” Red smiles, his teeth showing a little, and chuckles, “you might need me to scrub someplace you can’t reach.”

Tony looks up and into deep, grey-blue eyes, softer now than he’s ever seen them. Red is leaning closer, arms on his knees, watching Tony with an expression that’s as wary and hopeful as Tony feels. When their gazes lock, Tony sees a blush color Red’s cheeks, though his expression softens and he holds out his hand. Handing him the sponge, Tony gives him a wink. 

“I might at that. Thanks.”

===============================

Later that night, after Red had drained the tub by dragging it outdoors and dumping it down the hill, he went back up the hill to the big house. Entering the workshop, he is surprised to see Evgeniya sitting at her workbench, watching something on the tablet in her hands. He halts at the tape line and stands at ease, waiting for her to give him permission to speak. She ignores him, watching the tablet and swiping back and forth between screens for nearly thirty minutes before turning to him. When she does, he can see she’s red-eyed, indicating been angry for some time now.

This observation is confirmed when she flings the tablet at his head. It comes at him, spinning like a disk, her angry yell flooding his ears with noise. He reflexively catches the tablet and glances at the image frozen on the screen. He is bending over the tub, helping Tony wash his legs. The angle of the picture is what throws him. It comes from the wall on the other side of the bed, showing the rumpled covers and then straight at his face and Tony’s. Without stopping to think of consequences, he taps the screen with his flesh hand, shrinking the frozen shot back to its smaller frame. More angles of the room down the hill come up, showing three more views of the bed as well as the bathroom, the desk, and the hallway between the two rooms. 

Realization of what this means strikes him at the same time as the energized fiber whip, wrapping him up and sending jolts of energy throughout his body. His metal arm begins to spasm uncontrollably as he falls to the floor, dropping the tablet. He turns his head to keep from smashing his nose against the concrete floor and catches a glimpse of Evgeniya, her right arm encased in a skeletal frame. At her shoulder sits a circular, glowing device that reminds him of the thing in Siyat'’s chest. The whip extends from the frame to let her handle it, the fibers that carried the energy wrapped and segmented by bands of metal. 

He finds it eerie, the crackling of the energy dampening out his hearing as it overloads the rest of his nerves. She’s yelling at him, but unless he reads her lips, he has no idea what she’s screaming about. He feels himself floating, like how he used to do when the HYDRA techs use to wipe his memory. From the corner of his left eye, he can see his arm flexing and flailing, the metal plates opening and closing randomly. The thought he’d had as the whip had struck him comes back, floating with him until he catches and holds onto it. 

She’s been watching Zemo every time he’s had a go at Siyat'. If he was to keep Zemo from having his way again, then it must mean she’s tired of watching. The image of Siyat' sitting naked on the bed comes to him and he knows the man would be completely at her mercy, which is non-existent. He almost has it figured out, why she’s so mad, until she hits him with a second whip. Both of them wrap around him, around his metallic arm, sending incredible amounts of energy shooting through him. After that, it’s all he can do to keep himself from biting his tongue or beating himself in the face.

Time passes without meaning as she vents her temper on him, kicking him and sending new bolts of energy through the whip until he lays panting and nearly unconscious. The heavy boots she wears appear in front of his face. He wants to flinch but is unable to summon enough energy to do so. The tablet, still working despite the crack traveling diagonally across its screen, shows the video feeds from down the hill. Siyat' is on the bed where he’d left him, clean sheets and blankets wrapped around him as he tosses and turns from the waist up. 

“Zhal', chto ya ne smogu ubit' tvoya suka-zadnitsa, blyad!”  
[I wish I could fucking kill your bitch-ass, motherfucker!]

Her harsh whisper comes to him clearly, now that he isn’t being blasted with energy. She hits him in the face with the tablet, once, twice, a third time. Leaning over him, she speaks again, low and harsh, her words not much more than a growl in her throat. 

“Posmotri na eto, ty nemnogo der'mo! Ty vidish' eto! On moy! Derzhites' podal'she ot nego, ili ya budu trakhat' vas do smerti etimi khlystami. Vy ponimayete?”  
[Look at this, you little shit! You see it! He is mine! Stay away from him, or I'll fuck you to death with these whips. You understand?]

Throwing the tablet at him as she stands, she walks away, back to her workbench. Removing the arm frame, she tosses words over her shoulder at him, in English this time, so her meaning is even more clear. 

“Now get out. Come back in the morning for his items. After the delivery, come see me. I have a mission for you.”

Red forces himself to his feet, pressing his lips together to keep in any whimpers of pain. She did not appreciate any sign of weakness. He’s not sure what she has planned, but one thing is certain. He’ll be leaving, which means Siyat' will be left behind, vulnerable to Zemo and to her. Knowing this, knowing that she still expects him to be absolutely under her command, despite this behavior he’s exhibited, he wonders if this mission is one he’s supposed to return from. 

He’s had thoughts of escape before. He’s also sworn to kill his handlers before. This time he swears to himself, on his life, on his mother’s grave, for he is sure she’s long dead by now, that he will rescue Siyayushchaya Zvezda, and himself as well.


End file.
